


Learning how to die

by nemo_r



Category: 30 Days of Night
Genre: Death, M/M, Madness, Vampirism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemo_r/pseuds/nemo_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU retelling of the movie - What if Eben had taken Stranger with him instead of leaving him in the prison?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** [Anna K](http://www.perfectimagination.co.uk/BetaReader/profile_Akiqueen.html?fandom=OtherFandom)

**1 day of night**

I'm rewarding myself for a job well done. The diner, lit up in blood-red neon calls me in, the thought of food causing a shiver of pleasure so deep it's almost lust.

I make my way across the street. Feet crunching against the hard pressed snow. The light is fading now, turning grey between the houses. I can feel night pressing in, a cold weight between my shoulder blades.

The door jangles as it opens and I blink against the brightness, pause at the doorway as the heat washes over me, settling into my dirt-smeared skin and in between the bristles of my beard. There are eyes on me, I feel them like actual eyeballs, sticky soft, rolling across my skin.

The diner is small, the tables, gathered between the window and the bar, half full. Conversations ground to a low hum upon my entrance. I brush away the feeling of their regard, walk carefully down the aisle between tables towards the bar, entering the harsher glare of the fluorescent light.

I settle by the counter, push myself up onto a stool and let the heat work its way in under the layers of my clothes. It's easier to ignore them when they're behind my back. Out of sight, out of mind and it won't be long now. Won't be long. They lose interest as well, slowly, slowly.

I think over my order, picking at the unravelling threads on my gloves as I line the words up in my head. Drink. Yes, warm me up from the inside. Meat. Yes, full of blood. I shiver, the lady behind the bar shifts away. I see her move, flick my eyes up to her face and see the tension held in the lines of her skin. Not a happy expression. I drop my eyes to my fingertips, don't look up again as I place my order. Feeling strange and still. Like my body is wound down and waiting. No. Coiled up and waiting. Energy stored in potential. Just begging to be released.

I ask for meat, she tells me all they have is frozen. She's lying, she must be. Blackened, burnt meat. My lips draw back from my teeth. It's not what I want.

She doesn't like me. This lady refusing my order. Doesn't want me here. What did I do? How can they know? Was it the words? Did I choose the wrong ones? This language feeling heavy and slow in my mouth, like puzzle pieces, all broken so they don't fit. I swallow angrily. Doesn't matter, it won't be long now. I want to spit, but hold back, shaking my head in disgust. Spit the words instead.

“No whisky. No rum.”

“Alcohol is illegal this month,” she replies. “Folks have a hard enough time in the dark without booze making it worse.”

The eyes behind me are creeping over my shoulders again, my muscles pulling tight underneath them, hunching under the glare from the lights. All I wanted was to celebrate. Just a moment before everything kicked off.

I just wanted to eat. Isn't that what _everyone_ wants?

I reach out fast, snatch at her hand. “You don't bring me what I want to eat,” I growl. “What I want to drink.” The flicker of fear in her pulse is almost, almost a good enough substitute.

The door swings and slams behind me.

“That's enough, pal.”

I feel him before I hear him, hear him before I see him. Closing the door on the icy cold. The heat of his attention, focused sharp on me, on my hand and the point of contact between my fingers and the woman's wrist.

“Let the lady go.”

I do as he says, not quite involuntarily, but not quite of my own volition. A jerky, half-movement, my fingers twitching open. I flex the empty grip as she pulls away.

He's looking at me, I can feel the press of his eyes across my back. I don't turn, not sure I could bear the brunt of that. Give myself a moment to acclimatise.

One good thing, he's drawn everyone else's gazes to himself.

It's too secure, that confidence, that focus. He carries it easily. They all angle their faces towards him. Someone important then, Sheriff? That would make sense. Good.

I shift a little in my seat as he walks up, taking the seat beside mine. Not sure whether I want to move into the heat of him, or away. I wonder what he looks like, but still can't bring myself to turn, my gaze dancing over the tabletop. Wanting but not wanting, reminds me of Marlow.

I swallow, backtracking and erasing the thought. He's nothing like- I flick a glance up at the lady to try and distract myself. He's just another one of them. Sheep. Just like her, they don't matter.

The door swings again, someone moves behind me, my gaze skitters to the corner. The press of people in this room is stifling. I should leave.

“Hey.” Takes me a second to realise he's talking to me.

"Hey. What do you say the two of us go outside and have a little talk." It's not a question.

I gather myself up, turn to look at him and drink in the sight. Pleasant? That's an understatement. Calm eyes, dark hair framing his face. A half smile pulling the corner of his mouth to the side, cutting neat lines into his cheek. His lips look soft. Bet they'd taste good. Red.

He's so sure, so confident, I can't help but feed off that a little, play off that a little. Wonder if I could knock his calm right off.

“Now what's wrong with a man wanting a little fresh meat?” I ask.

He smiles and it's all on the lips, just the lips.

"Come on. You and me, let's go."

Smile, smile, trade smiles. I don't move.

After a second he stands.

"I'm taking you outside.” His gloved hand slapping me on the shoulder, sudden impact and that's it, that's the flip from calm to steel and a hit is as good as a punch. I slide off the stool and slip round to face him in one smooth motion.

"I would like to see that." I reply, and suddenly I'm down here and he's oh, so much taller than I realised. My head craning up to look at him, the thrill of this almost fight, almost, thumping in my veins. I imagine I can feel the heat from his body through all these muffling layers of clothes. Everyone's looking at us and it's tense, tense, so tense. But his focus isn't on me. It's on...

“I would too.” There's the cold press of a gun to the back of my head.

I wince, letting my body fall still. Damn him for distracting me.

I can taste the snow on her, should have tracked it moving around behind me. He did. He knew she was there. I stay very still.

There's something strange here, something pulling between them. Him in front, her behind. A messy rush of emotion tightening through me, like I'm not there, so still I've disappeared. I don't like it.

I keep my eyes on his face, watch him while she speaks (empty threats, tiresome). Flicker go his eyes. To her. Not on me. I don't like it. I snap, turn and lunge at her, and he has me. Stupid, stupid. But maybe a little bit clever. Because knowledge is good, and now I've seen her face. Seen his, and I overlay them in my mind. I know how their game plays, I've seen it before, seen a lot of things, before.

He slams me against the bar. I try to get up and he pushes me again. That _was_ stupid, I know he's bigger.

“Enough.” There's no smile-smile in his voice now. Just another troublemaker. I keep my face pressed to the cold plastic. I can bide my time.

They talk, don't talk. The silences are telling.

“Where are you staying?” He asks. And I can _hear_ that smile, don't even need to feel the brush of warmth that washes above my head. I tense my muscles. Not craning upwards, not at all. His hand tenses on my back.

She's different, all cold, awkward, spiky like she doesn't know how to hold that question.

“Billy and Peggy are putting me up.”

Whip snap. The warmth is gone and I exhale roughly against the table. He lifts me up like I weigh nothing. Maybe I do weigh nothing, I've gone so long without food the gnawing hunger is familiar as breathing.

I roll my eyes towards her as he pulls me up. Blonde, clean. Pretty eyes as blue as mine. But I saw that when I went for her. It's the closed up, closed off that I want to see this time. And it's there. There in the way he pushes me in front of him as well, taking out his anger on the prisoner. Pulling back at the last second because that's not what _good men do._

And he is good isn't he? I like the good ones. They're always the most fun.

We're to the door. Almost in the cold when she calls to stop him. “Eben, wait.” Invites herself along for the ride.

He doesn't reply, just snaps the cuffs over my wrists, sudden cold and _pain._ Trapping my skin hard enough to tear. _Take it out on her why don't you?_ But I'm pushed out before the words can find my lips. It's unfair and brambles line my throat at the thought of it. Breathe through, breathe through.

Doesn't matter. Won't be long before I'm the only one breathing at all.

**

The drive to the station is silent. The air thickens and coils itself between them in the front seat, layer upon layer upon layer. I wonder if I could bite through it with my teeth. I wonder if Marlow could.

“Haven't seen vandalism like this in a long time.”

My eyes are fixed on his reflection. He doesn't look up, but he's speaking to me. I don't reply. She butts in. Tries for a joke, flattened against the coils. I don't smile. Not on the outside, let my eyes drift: back of her head, the windscreen, the black night meeting white snow through the windows, all painted fire yellow by the street lamps.

She's talking, wordy talking – all sounds, no meaning. Trying to claw through the coils with blunt little fingers. He's not listening, except he is, a little and that annoys me, his focus should be on what's coming.

“Hell of a day.” He sighs, like it's over, like it's coming to an end.

“Just you wait.” I reply. And I'm not even teasing now.

The tension shifts, relocates. She even cranes round in her seat to look at me. I like that, settle back, rest my head against the seat. My eyes slide over and there's a jolt when I meet his in the mirror. Smile edging at the corners of my lips.

**

He manhandles me out of the car. The air is cold against my cheeks, the wind whipping my hair across my face and into my eyes. I see nothing but a monochrome blur until he shoves me into the station. Hustled down the hall into a large room. Desks along one side, cells along the other. Blank concrete, pale grey and white. Monochrome inside and out. There's an old woman there, all grey all over, looking up in surprise. A kid, pale, so pale, a scattering of freckles across his face, merging with the red of his hair.

He nods at them, pushes me past, towards the cells. He doesn't look at me, not once, so focused on not looking at _her_ coming up behind us. I feel cheated, like the cold skipped my skin and made straight for my insides. Doesn't even look when he takes off the handcuffs. Eyes on my wrists. He sees the cut then, scratch of red where the cuffs pulled my skin apart. That gets a flicker, look up, down.

Not enough. Not caring. Not such a good man after all.

He pulls my jacket off roughly. Is he surprised I'm not wearing more? Does he spare a thought for the cold I must have walked through? Doubtful. Shoves me forward, one hand, fingers spread like a brand between my shoulder blades. My breath catches in my throat and I stumble across the threshold, the rattle of metal as he pulls it shut behind me.

I turn, step back across the distance and make him look at me through the bars. A dark glance from under my lashes. Useful sometimes, being short. A man should look at the person he imprisons. But even that he dismisses, turning away to watch her embrace the old woman and the kid, (the embrace she didn't give him). I can feel his stricken gaze even from behind his back.

Kick the puppy, only I already killed the dogs.

I take a deep breath, no one hears me. Turn away and check my surroundings. The cell is as blank and faceless as any I've been in. The bars are red. Nice touch.

I walk over to the bench and sit. Unfold my legs out in front of me. Ignore the hunger, the thirst. Lick dry lips, settle back. Eyelids drifting closed and listen to them move about the room, talking, clothes rustling. Heartbeats thumping steady and low.

And the curving coiling emotion stretching between them.

There's family in this room. That surprises my eyes open and I look again at the kid, the old woman. Can't see it, but kin doesn't always show in the face. _She's_ not family of course. Except the twists of tension say different.

Maybe blood isn't all that.

Except, of course. When it is.

**

He gets to working quickly enough. Making calls, checking up. Very efficient, our Sheriff. It's almost sweet.

I shift, stretch out on the bench, one arm curled over onto my stomach, the other relaxed to the floor, trailing my fingers slowly in the dust. It's a good feeling, stretching out my spine against the hard surface. And lying down is lying down. Don't get much time to relax.

Even the in-between times, the cold ship cutting through the sea. Can't relax there, not ever. What if they change their minds? Bored of waiting. Not Marlow, not him. But the others, can't trust them. Not yet, not until I'm-

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Pull my mind back on point, back into this room, and him, sitting outside the bars, elbows on his knees. Earnest, calm, as if he can coax out the truth. I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He's trying to place me. Going through all the places I'm not.

“... You don't work at the refinery. You didn't fly in...”

No.

I walked in like a ghost, straight through your front door and into your house. Just like they will. Just like we always do.

“How'd you get in?”

He wants to know, he really does. I tilt my head to look at him. Inhale, exhale, inhale. Words hovering on my tongue.

I have the power here. I know it won't last. I'm not the threat, not by a long shot. But doesn't mean I can't enjoy it as long as I can.

I say nothing.

“All right.” He thinks he knows something, looks down like the answers are held in the bottom of his cup. “Well we've got a long time to figure this out. Nobody's coming for you for a month.”

I smile, a tiny laugh even. I can't help myself. Drink up, drink up. Soon there'll be only one thing left to drink.

And his heartbeat thumps steadily behind his chest.

**

They talk, they laugh. I half listen, drift along in my thoughts.

“Computers are down.”

My eyes open slowly, the cracked ceiling coming gradually into focus.

I feel him look at me. I do, I'm not imagining it. He goes to the phone... His heartbeat spikes just before he speaks. “Phones are down too.” Steady voice. I _am_ impressed.

I keep my reaction small, tension gathering in the muscles of my face, eyes widening, sight clearing. I swallow thickly, anticipation lining my throat, can't help but speak.

“Mister and Missus Sheriff, so sweet. _So_ helpless against what is comin'.”

I turn my head and his gaze is there to meet mine. My smile is all in my eyes. I hear their heartbeats all rise, all start to drum faster. Except his. How does he do that?

“I'll check on Gus.” His jaw tenses as he pulls on his coat. He turns away, doesn't look back at me.

“Check on Gus!” I interrupt. _Look at me._ “Board the windows. Try to hide.” I've got him now. Eyes on mine. “They're comin'.” And I get so caught up in the floodlight of his attention, I keep going, words lining up surprisingly smooth. “This time they're gonna take me with them. Honour me.” I nod sharply. “For all that I have done.”

I believe it, I believe it. The gnawing in my belly is only hunger. I believe it. This time. This time. They'll take me, and I'll take him. The tickle of fascination solidifies with a snap so strong I wonder that they didn't hear it. _Yes._ I'll take him. I let my eyes run over his body, the top of his head, the toes of his shoes. I want to laugh.

“They?” he asks. How can he smile? How can he look so smug? Doesn't he realise? I'm almost angry. _Don't you know what I'm going to do to you?_

I eat the words. Of course he doesn't. How could he?

He pulls his coat on over his shoulders and walks up to the bars, eyes on me, eyes only on me. They look dark from this angle. They almost look black.

My breath catches on the brambles in my throat, crawling back in before I realise they're there.

“Who are they?”

I couldn't answer if I wanted to. Could only wait for him to read the truth from my face, black eyes cutting into my skin.

The room plunges into sudden darkness, a flicker death-gasp of the lights, then only shadows. The whine of fluorescent lighting removes itself from my ears.

**

His eyes pierce mine even in the darkness, his face lost to shadows. Then he turns away, releases me. The lights return before he turns back. Fluorescent hum.

I push myself up. Slowly. No need to rush it. Not now, everything is ready. Now it's all about waiting. I watch him though. Of course I do. He's the most interesting thing in the room. But he slips out of view, moves behind the wall and I let my eyes drift.

She's looking at me. Missus Sheriff. She doesn't look happy. Makes me smile. Or was it snarl? Showing my teeth either way.

Mister Sheriff... Eben, tells them he's leaving, and the kid's fear is delicious. Missus Sheriff postures for the sake of the kiddie. Isn't that sweet? I stretch my lips wider. Wait for him to turn, to look at me, maybe warn me off them. As if I was the one they should be afraid of.

Then he's gone. Walked straight out the door, not even a glance my way.

Makes me angry enough to spit.

I don't realise I'm glaring at the door until she speaks. “Glaring won't bring him back.” She's close to the bars, close enough that I hear and the other two don't. I see the laughter in her eyes as well. Ugly jealous thing.

“You'd know.” I reply. Watch her laughter dim into anger. And this time there's a real smile on my lips as I lean back, safe behind bars.

**

I can feel _them_ come closer, like a wave of cold air moving across the plain. Pushing the screams, the curls of fear and pain before them.

I'm on my feet before I realise it. Standing ready behind the bars. Eyes on the picture inside my head. Darkness creeping across the town. Blood on snow.

“No way out of town.”

I'm not speaking to them. But they're listening and that's good. “No one to come help.”

The women pretend to ignore me and focus on their game. But little brother Sheriff, trying to be Eben...

“Shut up.”

What a failure. I'd laugh, if I could stop hating him for trying. I want to know if the jumper he's wearing used to be Eben's. If Eben's hair was pale like his, and darkened over the years. I want to know if his blood tastes anywhere near as sweet as I _know_ Eben's will.

(I have a name now, and I just want to say it over and over. _Eben, Eben, Eben._ You will be my first kill. Your blood will baptise me. Eben, Eben.)

So I keep taunting them. Better that than let them know what's really in my head.

“Just ignore him, Jake.” Good advice. But ultimately useless. It's not me the kid's hunching his shoulders against.

“You can feel it. That cold ain't the weather. That's _death_ approachin'.” I wonder if Eben feels it too. Then I dismiss the thought. Stupid. Of course he does. Anything this fool boy can do, his brother does better.

My tongue flicks out to wet my lips and I know I'm grinning. “Who d'you think they gonna take first? Hm?” Give them a moment, let the fear sink in with the question. The doubt. Gives me a moment to search for the next words. Remember how their language works.

“The girl thinks a _gun_ will help her.” The scorn in my voice is clear enough. “The kid, Sheriff's kid. Or the old gal.” And that makes him snap, thought it would. He throws a playing piece at me, bouncing between the bars to the floor just outside the cell. A little plastic soldier, fallen on his side.

I tilt my head, the only part of me that moves. “Oh, yeah. Thank you, for the, plastique.” I draw out the word, looking over at him, “I can snap that apart and pick the lock.” His eyes are so wide and innocent in his pale, freckled face. No, Eben never looked like that. Not like the kid. All innocence and stupidity.

He falls for it. Just like I knew he would, lunges forward towards me, hand out for the soldier. And I'm on him before he can shout. Before Missus Sheriff is anywhere near saving him, and all she can do is look on impotently as I drag him up the bars by the hair, pull him upright and tighten my hold on his neck. Then wait for him to die. Struggle, struggle. Like a fish on the line.

Suddenly there's a bang and a burning pain in my shoulder. I shout out, release him and fall backwards. See my blood spattered against the wall. I grab at the kid with my right hand, but he's already out of reach, the little shit.

I swallow the pain, glare at Eben, for it is he. Of course, who else? “Shit head,” I spit.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, it hurts more than the fucking bullet he put in me.

He walks up to the bars. Doesn't spare a glance for his fool brother and starts to unlock the door. Calling for the first aid kit as he does, his voice low and tight. I suppose he's angry. I'm _glad._

I thought that he was done. Good Sheriff patching me up. I lever myself down onto the bench. But then he's inside, grabbing me, shoving me around and back. My shoulder slams against the bars and I can't speak through the pain. I drop to the floor and he lets me fall, grabbing my right hand and pulling it up above my head, cuffing it there like I'm a dog to be tied up. Chain link and kennels and blood on their fur.

Then he grabs my other arm, the arm he _put a bullet through_ and pulls it up as well, cuffs them both above my head and the pain, the pain. It's screaming down my nerves, I can't bear it. I'm whining through my teeth. ( _Like the dogs, the dogs. Red all over the knife._ )

“All right, time to talk” He's right in front of me. I can feel his anger like a furnace. How did I miss this? “Who are you here with? _Who are you here with?_ ” And there's desperation there too, feels like fingers, clutching at my clothes. I swallow a moan, pull it back down my throat.

What happened to our calm-anger Sheriff?

“Who did that to Gus?”

Ah, that'd be it. They left him a present. I wonder, what would make him flip out like this? Did they leave his half eaten limbs strewn on the snow? Did they paint pictures in his blood?

All his anger, pressing up against my skin. The stink of my own blood, scattered against the wall. Everything sharper, brighter. I want this. I want it, hurts so bad, makes me want it more. I'm going to kill him slow, real slow. So slow it won't feel like dying, it'll feel like coming alive all over again.

I open my eyes, slitted, against the pain, then wider as I see his expression. Poor. Mister. Sheriff. I'd laugh if I could, but it hurts, it hurts. And a laugh would become a scream and then I'd never stop.

“You're a dead man.” I spit. And I know all he sees in my face is hatred and all he hears are threats.

_You'll understand soon enough. We'll be dead men together._

“Where are they!” He shouts it, voice going hoarse at the end, his anger slamming into my face, and that's it, I'm done. My arm hurts, it hurts so bad and I'm sick of being shouted at.

“I don't talk to dead men.” He keeps staring so I say it again, shout it, spit foaming at my lips. “I don't talk to dead men!”

He reels his anger back in. Maybe I got through to him. “Well if I'm dead no one lets you loose from here.” Maybe not. Fool.

“You're all dead.” I turn my head a little, to indicate the rest. Say your goodbyes Sheriff. There's no way out now.

He hates that, I feel the scrape of his anger rise. I see it in his face in his body as he rocks towards me. Go on. Do it.

But he stands. No hitting the wounded man. So strange, this honour the _good_ Sheriff has.

I want to spit on his face and make him lick it off. Shoot holes in his body, see how he likes it then. Maybe he reads it in his eyes. Maybe he only sees his own rage reflected back at him. He stands and walks out.

The old woman mentions a doctor. But Eben...

“No, wait 'till the power's back and call Doc Miller then. This _fucker_ doesn't deserve anything 'till then.”

So strange.

I let my head fall back against the bars and try to breathe through the pain, jagged on the inhale. Swim out of it long enough to hear his orders to the old woman. Missus Sheriff is leaving with him. I haven't the energy to get worked up.

“There's a taser in the back. If he gives you any trouble, _use it_.”

Should I be flattered? I'm shot, cuffed and imprisoned and he still sees me as a threat.

**

The old woman uncuffs me from the bars to treat me. The kid standing ready with the taser as she does it. I ignore them both. Focus my eyes on a point above her head. Light glinting off the grey of her hair. I can feel the kids desire to hurt me. Like an itch against the side of my cheek.

They leave me alone after. Move back into the room to play their game. Low murmurs and the click of plastic soldiers against the table top.

I wait. The pain dulls. I wait.

They come into the building silently. Like ice creeping up the walls. I can't see, but I listen, first, the inhale. Then the screams. Running feet, pleas, shouts. Begging for mercy. The old woman does something, fights back. Pain like a wash of red light, painting shadows on the wall in front of me. The boy escapes. I hear his heartbeat receding, pitter-patter as it fades in the distance.

I hear Eben's voice. Crackly through the radio, “Helen? Helen!” Hear her heart slow. “Helen!” The silence between each beat stretching wider and wider. “Helen come in!” Until it stops.

Sound of feeding, flesh splashing against the bloody floor. I wait for them to come to me. Wait, wait. They drag the body out, a feast for sharing.

They'll come back. They'll come back for me.

I hear blood dripping down the walls, slow drip, like a leaky tap.

The cold creeps into my bones. They aren't coming.

**

There's nothing for a long time. Far off screams. Shouting. I hear gunfire. It comes as if from miles and miles away. Through thick fog. Everything is grey and choking.

They aren't coming.

I hear the hum of an engine, growling to a stop, crunch of snow, and the door bursts open. I can hear them panting, hearts beating rabbit-fast. My stupid, vain hope that it was _them_ coming back for me, dies. They don't drive cars, their hearts don't beat.

“Jake? Helen? Are you here?” His voice cracks. Our good Sheriff.

I hear them move into the room. Light careening over the walls. They see the blood, she breathes out a curse. I listen, but he makes no sound.

I can hear him walking towards me. What will I see on his face? Will he reflect my despair back at me? I can't bring myself to look. I speak first, before he can.

“ _They didn't take me._ ” I hear the whine in my voice. Pathetic.

He's panting, breathing so loud in the quiet. Be quiet. Lie down. We're dead men.

“Who did they take?” His voice so full of emotion. Stop caring. It doesn't matter.

“They didn't take _me._ ” There are tears prickling at my eyes. He promised, Marlow promised.

Eben sits on the bench opposite. “Did they take my brother?” he asks. Pain now, in his voice.

I swallow thickly, raise my chin. His head drops, and he chokes off a sob. All that emotion fighting against all that steel. Blood matters.

I don't care. He's broken enough. He'll do this. “Finish me off,” I say. I'm nothing now. I'm empty.

He raises his head until our eyes meet. There, in the depths - anger - I can see him embracing it. Better than despair, than misery. The fire of my anger is banked and smothered. I'm nothing. “Finish me,” I beg him.

The tension rises between us. Cold, inexorable. I didn't want it to end like this. But it will end, that's enough.

“Eben.” She whispers his name from the door. Ignore her, look at me. “Eben,” she says again, louder. “Look at me.”

He turns from me, blinks, like waking from a dream. I let the breath hiss out from between my teeth, lean my head back against the bars. Damn her. I blink and the tears fall from the corner of my eyes, drawing cold, wet lines down my cheeks. _Damn_ her.

He stands, walks slowly to the door.

I make a noise. I don't mean to, a thread of connection dragging at my chest, it slips out despite myself. But it makes him pause, turn his head towards me. I can feel his eyes on my face and I hunch from the slice of his gaze. Leave then. If you're going to, just go.

I'm snuffling, and now there are tremors racking my body. They left me, they all leave.

“Get his coat.”

She murmurs something, then moves away.

He moves in front of me, squatting down until our eyes are level. “Look at me.” His voice is rough. I keep my face tilted away. “Look at me.” He demands, reaching out to pull my chin towards him, thumb pressing into my cheek. His eyes are dark, moonlight glinting off his lashes.

He uncuffs me, I can't hold back a scream as my arms relax from where they were pinned. I don't even try. He pulls me up roughly, but pushing me back against the bars he's careful to put the weight on my uninjured shoulder. Gives me a moment for the blood to rush back into my legs.

I make little effort to stand. Propped between him and the bars, pain crawling down my limbs. “Should've killed me,” I choke out.

He laughs, dry and humourless. “Don't tempt me.” He looks over my shoulder, at the room. I focus in on the sound of his breathing. A little fast, hitch on the exhale. I wonder if he can smell it. Blood, death, despair. I feel it rising off me like steam. Saturated in it.

She returns with the coat, and he catches my eyes again. “You're coming with us. You try _anything_ , I will put you down.” I don't know what he expects to see. What reaction he's looking for. My eyes are blank. They left me. My life is over.

He slides the coat around my shoulders, the heat of him almost an embrace. And then he's sliding my injured arm into the sleeve. I choke out a curse, eyes screwed tightly shut. He pulls my hands around in front and cuffs me again. I swallow a moan. Grit my teeth and hiss out the pain. Eyes open and I look up at him. He's ready for the hatred, sharp-smiles at me, gloved hand thumping my other shoulder. “That's the spirit.” His eyes look black.

**

Outside is a mess. Snow churned up with blood. Bodies lying in broken shapes across the road, the car swerving to miss them, skidding over the snow. Gunshots, fighting. Screaming, screaming, lots of screaming. We drive through darkness awash with red pain and black despair. Shatter of misery, like broken glass, glinting on the snow. The car driving straight through the fog of emotion and violence. I see them feasting through the window. Jumping straight thorough windows, smashing open doors. Leaping on top of people and bearing them to the ground. Hunched over, then arching their heads up, blood spraying out before them as they rip the throats out of their victims.

There's a heavy boom as something in the house opposite us explodes. Charred hunks of plastic and metal smashing through the window. Dented pots and pans scatter across the street. _Don't forget to turn off the gas._ Eben spins the wheel, the car swerving to the side. Fire casts ugly shadows over our faces. Smoke billows from the broken window. People run out screaming. The dead run out screaming. Meet their death in the streets. In their houses. Only a matter of time.

I feel the other two draw back in horror, their eyes wide. I can almost taste the blood, dark on the snow. It would be hot. Salt against my tongue. I lick my lips.

Eben steps on the gas, pedal pushed right down and we take the corner at an angle, the car protesting with a squeal of metal. His speed pulls off, the road is empty of people. For now.

Eben pulls up right close to the diner. They haven't reached here yet. Yipping and calling just streets away. We rush in, no time to waste. Eben and the Missus scanning the street, hands on their guns. I move between them, head down. Push the door open and step back. Better they precede me. Instincts kick in despite myself. Maybe I don't want to die.

There are people inside, and at first it's all shocky stares. _We're alive, you're alive, now what?_ There's a frantic, panic-filled pause, then Eben moves forward, flips the lights off. _Did they see? Did they?_

I want to tell them it's futile. They saw, they know. _He_ always knows. But what's the point? They won't listen to me. Everyone wants to believe they can survive. Even me. He checks the phone. I could tell him it'd be dead, but I think he knew.

I step back into the corner, shielded by the way Eben draws everyone's eyes to himself (strange deja-vu). He takes charge. He was always in charge, slips into it here like an old coat. Perfect fit.

“Lucy, is the back door locked?”

“They're all locked.”

He breathes relief in deeply. A second to think, to try and find a way out of this mess. Then he sees the kid. I'd almost forgotten he escaped, pitter-patter fading away. He moves toward him, the kid practically launching himself into his brother's arms. They embrace, repeating each other's names over and over. Breathing in each other's scent. It makes me sick. I thump back against the wall, the impact sending a stab of pain through my shoulder and I exhale roughly.

Eben turns to glare at me. Lines of his face held tense in anger. I raise my eyebrows at him, a minimalist's shrug. He's looking at me now, letting his brother go.

Someone recognises me. Or maybe they see the cuffs.

“Why did you bring him?”

They don't want me. That's fine, I don't want them either. But Eben won't let me go. Not now he's gone to all the trouble of bringing me.

He calms them. I ignore them, slip. Drift. Open my eyes and he's in front of me. A second of panic - I'm losing time.

There's a flicker of emotion in his eyes, but it's gone between one blink and the next. I'm seeing things. Hunger gnaws at the pit of my stomach. “I'm thirsty.” Hungry. One of the two. Both.

He frowns. I see the move to dismiss it, but... he looks me over. Nothing changes in his expression. Nothing I can see.

“Get him some water.”

Says nothing after that, just looks at me. I don't know what he's reading in my face and I drop my eyes, shuffle my feet against the floor.

“Here.” He hands the glass over, still watching as I drain it. Messy. It's been a long time. Water tastes good. Better than sucked cold from the snow. I wipe the drips from my beard. He holds his hand out for the glass, I almost don't let go, fingers tightening around it. He just waits, eyes steady as his hand. _He took me with him._ I hold my breath and hand it back, withdrawing my hand quickly, careful not to touch his fingers.

He takes it, taps his fingers against it softly. He did that before, it's a tell, if only I knew what it meant.

“What do they want?”

I shrug, one shouldered. He frowns, brows drawing together and moves forwards into my space. “Tell me what they want.”

I smile, it's ugly I know, I feel it distorting my face. Can't talk, can't reason, no negotiations with _them_. “They want you dead. They want you all dead.”

There's a clamour of panic from the others, but his face is still. He sees it, he understands. Hell, he knew it already. Just didn't want to admit.

“How do we stop them?”

I laugh, comes out more a croak, my eyes flicker to the empty glass. “Can't stop them.” I shake my head. “Can't stop, can't bargain. Won't leave 'til they're done.”

I tilt my head to look at the rest of them, shock on most the faces, grey despair. Resignation. Not all. Determination on one, on two. Won't save them.

I look back at him. He's stone, but it's cracking. He knows now. “Why did you bring them here?” He hisses, moving closer still, reaching out to rest his hand on the wall above my head. Closing me in. Trapping me with his body.

Sheltering them from my answer. Or me from their reactions. Maybe it's that that pulls the words from my lips. Maybe not. I don't like lying. I tell the truth, they never believe it.

“I didn't. They brought me.” I look him straight in the eye, speak his words back at him. “Nobody's comin' for you for a month.” I see the fault line running through his stone. His head lowers, eyes fall shut.

I'm sorry Mister Sheriff. We're dead, we're all dead. It's just a matter of time. I am sorry. Didn't think I would be, but. He took me with him.

My hand is shielded from the others by his body. I reach forward slow. Ready to pull back. My fingers find the edge of his coat, press into the fabric until I can feel the hardness of his chest. He pushes out against my hand as he breathes in. Once, twice.

I look up from my fingers, up the front of his coat, his neck, his face. Meet his eyes, a question in them, one I can't answer. There's an ache in my chest. Hot and blunt. Burns away a bit of the grey.

He moves, straightens, and I pull my hand back sharply.

“Okay.” He turns to face the rest. “Okay. Here's what we're going to do...”

He pulls his hat from his head, dark hair sticking up at an angle, before drifting down to lie close against his scalp. Looks so fine, soft as it brushes his skin.

“... way out on the edge of town. We need some place close to hide. Now.” I tune back in, drag my focus on what he's saying, note the desperation still flavouring his voice.

The woman by the bar speaks up, “Charlie Kelso’s attic? It has a pull down ladder, you can't tell it's there.”

Missus Sheriff shakes her head. “He would have boarded up his home before he left.”

She sounds the same. They all do, so desperate and afraid. They need to accept it. Free the mind – my eyes find their way back to him – make the most of the few moments left.

“Which is exactly why it's a good idea,” he insists. “We'll pull down a board to get in then we'll tack it back up after.”

He calls one of the men over to my corner, the one with dark skin. Lowers his voice to speak to him, ignoring me. He's planning something, I shift closer.

“I'm gonna load up with as many traps and flares as a four by four can carry, something's gotta slow them down.”

He's going to get himself killed. Get himself killed and I 'll be left alone. They'll abandon me and then I'll die alone. This can't happen, I can't let it happen. He can't do this to me.

Missus Sheriff comes up behind him. She sees it too, feels it, too. I feel her determination sharpen before she speaks. “I'm coming with you.”

He's considering it. I can see that. I shift slightly, wince as my shoulder twinges. He sees me out of the corner of his eye, turns. I don't say anything, just look it at him.

He shakes his head slowly. “No, I need you here.” He looks back to her. Steps closer, plays at convincing her there's a reason to stay. _Look after them, they need you._ I know what's under the words, that push and pull of emotion. _Be safe_.

Finally she nods, and he turns to me. She reaches out before he can speak. “No, Eben.” He looks back at her.

“Stella.”

She looks at me, then at the rest of them, cold eyes. They'll kill me if they have the chance. Hatred and fear. He can't leave me here. Deciding not to kill me means deciding to keep me alive. He made the choice. He brought me with him. He chose me.

She turns her back to me, moves into his space, pleads with him, low voiced. It doesn't mean the same to her. She wanted Eben not to kill. She didn't want me to stay alive. There's a difference.

He glances over at me and I know I've won (keep the grin on the inside). She steps back, moves away, hardness in her eyes when she looks at me.

“Come on,” he orders, voice rough. I feel them watching my back - her, the kid. They rake down from my neck and pull my shoulders in tight. But I follow after him and ignore them. They can't touch me. I'm with him now. He chose me. Me.

**

He uncuffs me. I massage my wrists, wincing at the rawness of my skin. Half a thought to wonder why he's trusting me this far. But I guess cuffed I'm a dead weight.

“Get in.” He pushes me towards the door.

The car starts with a growl and he jams it into gear, backing out and swerving onto the road, accelerating rapidly.

“Not fast enough.”

He ignores me.

We turn a corner, drive flat out along the road, houses flitting by. Then the car suddenly slams to a stop. We trade wide-eyed looks. He revs the engine, I can hear the wheels skidding against the snow. But we're not moving. Why are we not moving?

Fear crawls stickily up my spine. Then the car is shoved _up_. The back of the car, raised into the air, picked up by many strong hands and tilted forward. My hands go out to brace against the windscreen. Breath coming in gasps.

“Shit, oh shit,” he curses beside me. I share the sentiment.

The side window shatters. A loud crash and fall of glass, and then it's filled with snarling, bloody mouths and grasping fingers. I'm shouting too, begging and swearing. Hitting out at them with my good hand.

He gets his door open. I hear the crack of a bullet beside me. Too occupied on my own fight to worry about his. Kick, hit, kick again. Get the fuck away from me. “Get away.”

Then the car tilts further, right up and we're held for a moment in the air. His fingers tangle with mine, pressed, glove-swaddled against the roof. Then we're falling, fast down the other side. And _slam_. We hit the ground. Glass smashes, and metal creaks and buckles. The car rocks, and all is silent. I'm dazed by pain. My shoulder trapped against the chair.

A second later our snarling attackers return. Grab me by the hair and start to pull me out from under the wreck. I scream in fear and pain, flailing uselessly. I manage to rip my head from their grip, pain in my scalp that says I've lost hair to them. He's kicking out at the ones on his side, but they've got a grip on his leg and I've only one hand to offer him, his gloved hand reaching for me. Our fingers brush and miss. They have me again, inhuman strength dragging me right out and out onto the snow. All I can do is watch as I'm dragged away from him. “No. No. No!” I kick hard at my captor, strike for the knee and watch it buckle. He grabs at my coat and I wriggle out of it, don't even notice the pain in my arm. I dive back into the car, reach again for his hands. Feel _them_ snatch at the backs of my legs.

There's an almighty roar, a rush of air that passes behind me (so close) and my attackers are swept away in a scream of metal. A truck, a massive truck driving away and screeching to a stop behind us.

“Go! Get out of here!” he shouts at me. And I almost do. Muscles tense, fight or flight...

I lunge forwards, our hands meet, both hands and my injured shoulder is burning agony. I drag him from their grip, resistance that he kicks away, and then we're both running, running across the snow. His long legs eat the distance faster than mine, and he drags the truck door open. I leap in behind him, Pull the door shut as he orders the fat man driving to go, _go_. I stare out the window at the car wreck. Shivers racking my body, flames of pain licking down my arm.

I see _him_ standing there and I still.

Marlow watches us as we drive away. His face, blood smeared and pale. No expression in his dead, black eyes. I shiver. Violently enough that Eben turns to me, whispers something, am I okay?

I'm laughing I realise, laughing hard, then choking and snivelling on tears. Did he see me? He must have. He knows me. And now he knows what I've done. Betrayed him, betrayed them all.

“I'm a dead man.” I want to explain. They left me, they didn't come back. What was I supposed to do? Can't the dead stay together?

“It's gonna be okay. We'll be okay.” He's talking to me I realise. And I shake my head. He’s wrong, he's so wrong.

**

We ditch the truck a couple of streets away, trading speed for stealth. Eben takes point. The fat man behind and me shivering in the middle. We creep around the buildings, pick our way through the churned up snow and around dead bodies. They turn their eyes away from the sight, I barely notice. Dead is dead.

I wait, my eyes on him, as he leans to look around the corner of the wooden house, a second, two, then. “Okay.” He nods and we hurry to the next building, press up against the boards, shoulder to shoulder.

Creep along the blindside. I know my breathing is the loudest. Can't stop, can't stop the shivers either, wish I'd been able to hold on to the coat. “One more,” he says for my benefit. I nod, try and steel my spine. Raise my chin. There's that flicker of emotion in his eyes again, but he turns away before I can be sure. He cranes his head around then ducks sharply back. We stare at each other with eyes showing too much white. I hold my breath. He does as well. A couple of seconds pass, then, crouching even lower, he edges round to look again. His back looks defenceless curving away from me. I fold my fingers in against my palm and hold still.

He raises one hand, three fingers, folding one in, two, three, then we move, crouched right down as low as we can. I feel my knees protest.

The skin on the back of my neck crawls with ice. We're so exposed. We rush up the stairs to the house. Eben and I stand facing out as the fat man levers the edge of a board up from the door.

“Go,” he orders and I need no further prompting, ducking under and pushing open the door, sighing in relief at being sheltered from the cold wind.

Eben comes in last. I hear the door creak shut behind him.

There's a row of coats hung up on the wall and I snatch one down, pulling it on gratefully.

“What are you doing?” The fat man whisper-snaps.

“What?” My shoulders hunch against his tone, sending a sharp slash of pain through the wound. “They're not using it.” I catch Eben's eye. He doesn't smile, but he nods, a signal that lets me release the tension running through my back. I pull the coat closer around me.

The fat man grunts something unintelligible and turns away. I wait with Eben as he secures the door.

Once done he gestures for us to come close. “Guns, ammunition, food, flashlights, blankets. Anything useful. Be quiet, be quick. We'll meet upstairs.” The fat man turns away and begins searching. I hold Eben's eye a moment longer. “How's your shoulder,” he asks. I move to shrug, then think better of it. “Hurts,” I reply, honestly. “But I'll manage.” He smiles grimly and nods.

I move through the rooms silently, I've had practice. The fat man is quieter than I expected, each step taken carefully on the wooden floors. But every accidental creak makes us all still and hold our breaths.

We gather on the landing, I've found a gun, slip the bullets into each chamber carefully, the movements clumsy. The fat man stares at me from under bushy eyebrows. I just glare back. Eben steps between us. Hands out for the weapon. I hesitate, his gaze is as steady as before and I hand it over.

He gives me that nod again, like maybe I'd had a choice there, like maybe I made the right one and steps away, flicking on the safety and tucking the gun into his waistband. He passes his shotgun to the fat man, and shines his flashlight upwards. The circle of light runs across the ceiling and we follow its path until we see the part that sticks out just slightly from the rest.

“There.” He walks towards it, flips off the flashlight. Reaches up. And there's a sudden gunshot outside. Echoes around the room. We all turn to the window, muscles pulling tense against our bones.

There's nothing, no following noise of their approach and after a little more heavy breathing we turn back to the trapdoor. He raises his hand, three fingers raised again, glances around to catch our eyes. I nod at him, the fat man does the same, his hands shifting on the gun. I step back, let them move in front, my weaponless hands hang loosely by my sides.

“One,” he whispers. “Two...three.” And he stretches up, grabs the cord and pulls down. The ladder unfolds smoothly. No creak. Well oiled.

There's a shuffle, noise of movement from inside. And I can hear heartbeats. I relax, release my pent up breath. Seconds later the person above cranes his head over the edge, the dark man. He smiles in relief at the sight of us and we crawl up quickly. The rungs creaking under the fat man's weight. I crawl up as fast as I can with my injured arm, Eben follows behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**3 days of night**

Inside they're huddled in blankets, wrapped in corners, some staring at the floor, some out of the windows. They all jump at every gunshot. Wince at every scream. Missus Sheriff and the kid shuffle over towards Eben, talk, touch, reassure each other that they're alive.

I find an empty corner to huddle in. Watch the rest of them watch me. Wait until they turn away, wait longer, then allow myself to relax, a little.

They settle again, wrap themselves up. Eben comes up to me, I can feel them watching and I raise my hands for the cuffs with a sigh, bringing my wrists together. He doesn't move and I glance up in confusion. There are no cuffs in his hand. Just a blanket.

He unfolds it and wraps it around me. Bending down until he's level with my eyes. “I'll find a first aid kit. See to your shoulder.” I nod mutely. He doesn't move away, I wait, but he doesn't speak, and I find myself relaxing further into the shadow of his body.

“Thank you,” he whispers. I look at him, but his head is turned down. “For coming back for me,” he clarifies and glances up then, a flicker of dark eyes.

I don't know what to say. Can't explain _why_ I did it, that second on the snow; run or stay. So I give him the nod he's given me - measured, short. Some tension in his expression releases at that and there's a shiver of pride in my chest at finding the right response.

He straightens then, moves away to the others, and finally to the centre of the attic. Nodding to the fat man as he patrols carefully from window to window.

I suppose saving his life made us even in his mind. The anger and mistrust faded down, transferred to _them_ outside.

I know the rest haven't forgiven me my perceived sins. (They don't know half of what I've done.) His kin especially. Missus Sheriff glares daggers at me from one side, the kid from the other. I hunch deeper into the shadows, pull the blanket up around me and ignore them both.

**

I jerk awake, tense all over, my eyes still closed and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. The human sounds filtering into my ears. I roll over and up until I'm sitting again. My eyes flicker over the rest of them, but I don't betray my unease, cover it with a yawn.

Eben's sitting across from me, talking quietly to Jake, the kids face tense and pale.

“We just need to get through the month.” Eben insists.

I stand and walk towards them, taking a moment to stretch my legs.

Jake looks up at me warily, but keeps talking. “What if they come back?”

I shake my head. “They won't come back here.”

Eben turns to looks up at me.

“Don't chose the same place twice.”

His eyes are steady on me and I teeter for a second, on that knife edge between loyalties, but I don't follow _him_ any more. I don't.

“They come to cut off places. Places in the middle of nothin'.” The words rattle like marbles in my mouth, and I don't know if I'm getting it right. “They come in a ship, or a truck. Somethin' shielded from the day.”

Eben's gaze shutters, the planes of his face relaxing into blankness and I realise just what I'm saying. Just what I'm telling him. My throat closes, and I can't force my way past the block.

“They send someone in before them.” Eben stands slowly. His voice emotionless. “Someone to cut us off. To take away our advantages.” He pauses. “The dogs.”

I nod my head. Wide eyes. “Yes,” I whisper.

There's a ruffle in the air, the people around the attic draw back from me. Anger grows claws. The warmth I'd gathered into me slowly begins to slink away. I step back, outside of the circle. Back again.

“Then what?” Eben ignores them, walks towards me.

I swallow thickly. “The phone lines,” I whisper. “The power.” Something dark shifts in Eben's eyes then and suddenly I'm afraid, Marlow would do that, blank, blank and then the icy anger that froze my limbs to the floor.

I thought he knew this. Understood this. Why did he think I was here?

“Then what?” He whispers it now, close enough that he doesn't need to raise his voice.

“Then... they feed.” My voice doesn't break, but it's a weak thing, wavering at the end. He's looming over me and how could I forget how tall he is?

His voice drops, so low it's at the edge of hearing. “And this time they promised to take you with them.” It's not a question. My eyes flicker to the rest of them. The anger in their eyes hasn't turned to revulsion. They didn't hear. He's pressed me back into the corner without me noticing.

He doesn't need my answer, but I nod anyway, blinking fast against the burn in my eyes.

His eyes fall shut. There's so much tension held between his brows. His entire body vibrating with anger, the force of holding it in, not lashing out.

My tears break from my eyes and make track marks down my face. I breathe in brokenly. “They left me,” I whisper. He doesn't move. “They left me there. But you... You took me with you.” His eyes jerk open at that. Whites so bright.

He shakes his head, barely a shiver. Then he turns and stalks away from me, back stiff and straight. Back into the centre of their circle, moving into the middle of them all.

I press against the wall. My muscles give and I'm sliding down. Settling in under the slope of the roof and I close my eyes. Close them out.

**

No one talks to me and I drive out the sound of their own talking. Sink deep into my body, time my breaths to the thump and thunder of blood in my veins. It works at first, I pass the hours in a trance, slip into half-sleep, smooth and easy. I have practice. Long cold days in the belly of the ship, slow tilt of my world, and I almost believe I'm back there. That half-life of waiting, always waiting, waiting for them to find me, demand entertainment, taking it from my raised heartbeat, my pleading. Waiting for us to weigh anchor, to walk through a new part of the world and cut it off from the rest.

Waiting for death, waiting for _him_ to take me.

I lose myself, drip into familiar dreams, black eyes and bloody lips. Dreams I've spent so long honing I can't sleep without them.

Waking to the real world is painful, the dreams shatter like ice.

I push myself up from my slouch against the wall. It feels late. But the light is ever the same - yellow street light shining in from the windows.

I listen to their breathing for a while, the unfamiliarity of it, sleeping in a crowd of living, breathing souls. It stirs strange memories. Snatches of a life I left behind a long time ago. Unsettling.

I stretch and stand slowly, grimacing as my muscles protest.

I'm cold, I cast about for my blanket. It's way over on the other side of the attic. Between us, the messy shapes of their curled and sleeping bodies.

There's a shuffling movement and I still, eyes focusing on nothing, drifting over the window, the roof. A shuffle more and I can feel his eyes on me. A mess of emotion I don't want to decipher. Can't bear to feel his hatred.

I settle back down carefully, curl up on the floor, back to the room. Tucking my legs against my chest, pulling myself in tight. Close my eyes against him, against everything. Send myself back into memories.

**

I drift to wakefulness hours later, the yellow light from the street lamps still filtering in through the window, illuminating the wall before me, picking out the grain of the wood, the joins between the planks. I close my eyes against the sight. Trying to pull my dreams back over me. Trying to remember blur of my thoughts. Warmth, the press of living bodies. I hadn't dreamt of _those_ days for years. Can't dream like that on the ship full of dead, cold things. You can't miss what you don't remember. But here, in this little wooden home, surrounded by the shift and movement of life...

I'm not sure I want to remember that, already I'm aching for dreams. Aching for real memories would be worse. I turn my thoughts back to the ship. To what I've done in towns before this and before this and before this.

I hear the shift in breathing as the others wake, the skin between my shoulders feels tense, cold curling up my spine. I don't turn. They don't want to see me, I don't want to see them. Their ill will, like ice water against my neck.

I feel his eyes on me every now and then, snatches of emotion each time, cold like the others, but bitter too, like I've somehow failed him. I want to shout. Turn to him and ask what he expected, remind him it happened before, all of it before. Can't he see? It's different now. I'm different now.

It's starting to feel like the ship. Maybe this prison is of wood and snow, not metal and darkness. Maybe they breathe out of necessity, not choice. But I'm still alone.

I'm so wrapped up in my own misery, it takes me a moment to realise there's someone standing behind me. I flip around, a noisy scuffle I should be ashamed of, scrambling upright, hands splayed before me to ward off the blow.

It takes a couple of blinks for me to see what's before me, the light sharp against my eyes after so long with them closed.

Missus Sheriff is standing, surprise on her face. She controls the expression, flash of something that feels like pity, tiny little hooks that I wave away, cutting my hands through the air.

She looks expectant, but I've forgotten the words, so deep had I been in memories. I don't think she'd appreciate the guttural language of her attackers. None of them would (and my panicked movement has got them all looking at me).

“Food.” She draws my attention back to her, holding out a bowl. I frown, making no move to take it.

Surprising me, she doesn't snatch it away impatiently. Instead she lowers herself slowly, until she's squatting opposite, eyes level. “Here.”

She places it on the floor beside me, her movement stilling at my flinch. She looks at me, eyes flicking over my face. Then she retreats, walking slowly backwards a couple of steps, before turning to return to her place.

They're all watching me, it makes my skin crawl. I make no move to take the food.

Eben turns to her, murmurs something. She replies at the same volume, too low to hear properly, glances to look over her shoulder at me, then back. I could pick out the words if I tried. Could sift their language for meaning, but the others' focus is affecting me. Like bright lights, all shining directly in my face. I want to snarl, feel my lips drawing back from my teeth.

Eben stands, moves to the centre space.

“All right guys, listen up,” he begins to speak. “We'll take turns keeping watch, making food. We'll only use the cooking stove occasionally, cold food is safest.” He draws attention to himself, draws their focus in, person by person.

My fingers edge to the bowl, tiny steps against the floor and I pull it in towards me, circle my hands around it. The soup inside is tepid, but it tastes wonderful, my stomach aching at the taste of food. It's finished before I notice, licking the plate clean, chasing the last taste with my tongue. I glance around quickly, but he's still holding their attention and part of me unclenches at that.

My stomach chooses that moment to let out a rumbling growl. Loud enough to interrupt his speech. They all turn and stare. I control the desire to use the bowl to cover my face. There's a second of uncomfortable scrutiny. And then Missus Sheriff laughs, a controlled, quiet sound, but genuine.

Like that was a signal, the rest of them cut smiles, even Eben, when my eyes reach him, isn't as cold as before. “Hungry?” He raises an eyebrow.

I can feel heat edging up from my neck. Of course I'm fucking hungry. They only feed me when they remember. Which isn't often.

I don't say it. Maybe he reads some of it on my face, extending his hand for my bowl. Part of me doesn't want to give it to him, crossed wires and slow, it's a weapon, it's mine, it's food. Mine. It's a bowl... right.

He waits patiently, _again._ Waits until I finally free myself from tired snarls of thought and hand it over.

The refill is warmer, still holding heat from the pan. I drink it more slowly, relaxing against the wall as their attention drifts. Some falling back asleep, others murmuring to each other in low voices.

The food sits heavy in my belly, warmth moving through my limbs. I feel sleepy, real tiredness, not the half-daze. I feel like I could actually sleep.

I crawl forward and push the bowl back towards the middle of the room, careful not to touch Eben in any way. He doesn't look at me, but once I'm back in my corner he picks up the bowl, stacks it with the others.

I curl up to sleep, turning over to face away from the rest of them. Sink into a darkness free of dreams, free of memories.

Passage of time is difficult to tell, it's not anything I've kept track of before. Perpetual night is easy, like every moment exists at the same time. No past, no future. Just now.

I wake and there's a blanket placed over my shoulders. My body is warm, limbs relaxed loose in my sleep. I drift to sleep again, the scent of humans surrounding me. My breathing levelling to match theirs.

**

“I saw them... feed on Grandma Helen, Like... vampires, you know.” The kid is caught up in the memory, I can see it in the blankness of his gaze. The same painful tape of his emotion, play and reset, play and reset, like an itch against my skin.

“Vampires don't exist, Jake,” the Missus replies.

I don't speak up when they start to argue. Don't offer my opinion. Jake is right, Missus Sheriff. More right than you. They _are_ like vampires. Maybe they are vampires. There's enough stories that match, even if there are ones that don't. But naming never really mattered as much as the thing itself.

“I don't care what they are.” Eben draws my thoughts out and vocalises them. “I just wanna know what we do about them.”

“What _are_ we gonna do about them?” the fat man asks.

Eben crouches before the window, looking out at the snow covered ground.

“We'll sleep in shifts. We'll ration our food, and then we'll figure out the next step.” He starts to look around. Catching their eyes. “We've two advantages,” he says, raising two gloved fingers. I raise my eyebrows in the shadows, hold back my disbelief.

“We know this town and we know the cold. We live here for a reason.” He pauses. “Because nobody else can.” And there's pride in that sentence, I can hear it, they can too. It stops me from interrupting. He's saying this for them. To stop them panicking, giving away our position, killing us with their own stupidity.

“Yeah right.” The fat man mumbles under his breath. I can't decide if I'm grudgingly impressed at his scepticism, or if I just want to kick him for saying it out loud.

I don't listen to the rest, let Eben's voice wash over me, wait, wait until he's finished, then catch his eye. He doesn't come to me direct. Makes a circuit, talking soft and low. I can feel them relax as he moves around. Trust, so trusting. He comes up to me last and the tension across my shoulders holds tight. He sits down beside me, close enough to brush against my arm and he jerks back a little at the unexpected contact.

I lean back to stop myself leaning in towards him.

“You've one advantage,” I whisper. He turns to me. “The cold, ain't an advantage. You know it, they don't even feel it.”

His eyes fall closed, eyelashes dark against his cheeks and I feel guilty. Perhaps he really had believed in his speech after all. He shakes his head minutely, then opens his eyes again, gaze clear.

“How's the shoulder?”

I narrow my eyes, there's a flicker of fear that sharpens everything around me. I can see the shallow crows feet at the corners of his eyes, stress more than age. The dryness of his lips. Hear the roughness of his breathing, the low beat of his heart.

“Fine.” I bite out. Trying to keep my voice steady, because if he asks to see it, he'll see it's practically healed. And then he'll ask, he'll ask and I'll have to tell secrets I don't want to tell. Don't want to go back to curled in the corner with memories. Not when I have him sitting here next to me to compare with.

He scoffs, a little sceptical. “I shot you and that's fine?”

The conversation is running too close to my thoughts and I need to push it away.

“You care?”

He glances over at me, and the look in his eyes surprises me. Apparently he does.

“It's fine.”

He holds my gaze a second longer, then shrugs, leans back against the wall, shoulder brushing mine.

I want to say something, apologise for what I've done. The words tapping against the back of my teeth. But I don't want to pull this down into his past anger. Don't want to break this. Whatever this is.

“I'm sorry.”

The words are choked. Low, quiet enough that maybe I can take them back, deny them, if he...

He turns to look at me, face blank.

“Are you?” His eyes pin me in place. Hold the reassurances from passing my lips. Force me to think about it, remember the sink of the knife into fur and flesh. Cast my mind back over all of it, the blood and violence. The cold knowledge that I came in the forefront of a wave of death, unstoppable death. There's nothing quite like it.

Our gazes hold.

I see his grandma dead, remember her deft fingers on my shoulder. I imagine the rest of them dead, the nameless, the kid, the Missus. Eben.

I can't hold his eyes. Death is inevitable. If I sped them on their way, then I'm no more to blame than the cold, than an avalanche or a wild animal. Death is at the end of every story. The culmination of every life.

I'm not sorry.

He sighs. Shifts his position and I tense, ready myself for the loss of his warmth.

But all he does is raise my blanket to cover the both of us, moving in next to me.

I frown, in confusion, but he's not looking at me, eyes on the rest of them. They're all huddled up in their places. Most staring blankly at nothing. But they turn every now and then, look at the fat man, standing sentinel. Look at Eben, who holds their strength. Then look at me and hate sparks in their eyes.

My back tenses. I can feel them, wicked bright curls of hatred sliding around my throat. I'm not safe here. Not safe from any of them.

Eben moves beside me. Tucks himself further under the blanket. His arm brushing against mine and I look over at him sharply. “Don't worry about it,” he says, eyes insistent. I haven't the energy to protest, can't understand this push and pull. If this is his forgiveness, then I accept. I let my head fall back against the wall, too tired to maintain my fear. Too desperate to not take this.

He doesn't speak again, just sits there beside me. The tension slowly leaking out of my limbs until I fall asleep, my head dropping to rest on his shoulder.

I wake as he moves away, hands gentle.

“Shhh.”

He lowers me to lie on the floor. There's a phantom brush of fingers across my forehead, then I'm asleep once more.

**

I wake, later. Not sure how long. Not a full night. Not long enough. I'm still wrapped in muggy sleep. Thick like cotton stuffing my ears. My mouth is dry.

The noise that woke me comes again. The old man, shifting, making noise. I roll from my back onto my good side. Dislodge the layers Eben wrapped me with.

The woman from the bar stands and walks over to the old man, reassuring him quietly. “You should go to sleep now. You should go to sleep.”

I huddle in my blankets. Awake now. Eyes wide.

Eben, curled next to Missus Sheriff on the other side of the attic, unfurls and stands. He walks stiffly towards me. There's something sad in the Missus' face as she watches him leave. Letting him walk away from her. It doesn't fit exactly with what I thought I knew and I wonder how much of what I pick up I actually understand. Emotion scraping across my raw edges, meaningless unless you can read the people as well. And I don't live with people.

I risk a glance at Eben's face. His expression is closed off and blank. Not worth prying. He sits by me. We settle. And then I hear it. A scrabbling against the boards. I tense. He turns to me, noticing my stillness. It comes again. Louder. His eyes go wide.

The fat man ceases his patrol. The rest of them, slow as they are, finally clue in to the tension.

The Missus leans over to the window, it's covered over with paper except for a small tear at the bottom. She lifts the torn edge and peers out.

I unwrap myself from the blanket carefully, a sinuous roll of my uninjured shoulder and I stretch my neck, wincing as it pulls at the wound. The pain has lowered to a dull ache. I heal fast, but not fast enough.

She turns back to face us, keeps her voice low. “They're ransacking the Clark's place. They're tearing through everyone's homes.” Horror, in her voice, in her eyes, carried on her breath and traded between them all.

“We-” Their eyes all cut to me. I cough to clear my throat, tongue flicking to wet my lips. “We have to go.”

“When do you suggest we do that?” I flinch at the scorn in the fat man's voice.

“Now.” It's the woman from the bar, her voice dry with distaste at agreeing with me. “Before we lose our strength.”

I nod along with her words.

“Until we have some way to stop them it's, it's suicide,” says the Missus, leaning back against the window. Her pale face framed by lank blonde locks.

The man to my right stands. I can feel the nervous energy roiling off him like smoke, tastes acrid and electric.

“We stay here and they can kill us all...” he's panting, hyperventilating. “Or we can run like hell... some won't make it... but that's better than all of us dyin'!” His voice climbing as he speaks and Eben's got his hand outstretched, entreating the fool to calm the fuck down.

Almost has it, but then his fool brother stands as well, spitting anger between his freckles. “So maybe Denise or Lucy dies, but that's okay so long as you still have a chance?”

One of them pushes the other. The other pushes back and I leap up, jump on the man and drag him back down, pin him to the floor. He's bigger than me. but I'm vicious and I knee him where it hurts then shove my good arm across his neck. “You want us all to die?” I hiss in his face, words slurring into each other. Eyes wide with anger. “Shut the fuck up.”

I will not be food. I will not.

Eben moves up behind me, his hand rests on my shoulder. The injured one. A warning. I ease up and climb off the man.

He lumbers to his feet, glares at me, glares at Eben, who returns it, greater in intensity. “Start a fight that'll get us all killed a lot faster.” His voice is low and quieter than the fool's. But it carries over the panting of their breaths.

Eben shifts beside me. “You all right?”

I wait for his brother to reply. Glance over when I hear nothing and meet Eben's concerned gaze. Surprise relaxes the muscles of my face and I nod jerkily.

He steps away, standing with his back to the wall. “Okay.”

He pauses and I wait for him to tell us his plan. Tell us what to do.

It feels right, this waiting. Following his lead. When did this happen? When did I decide to throw my lot in with them? Was it when he drew the blanket over my sleeping body? Was it when I leapt for him in the car?

Or maybe it was even earlier. Maybe it began that moment back in the diner, I just didn't understand until now.

I know what I am, I know my own limits and my strengths. I followed Marlow. But he threw me away. I'll follow him no more.

Eben begins to speak. And I listen.

“First we go to the General Store. We get supplies and then we go to the Utilador.” He shakes his head. “But we'll never make it there without cover.” His gaze strays to the window. “We get there, we can last the month. The next blizzard we'll be ready.”

**  
 **14 days of night**

Missus Sheriff’s been looking at me oddly for a while now. Ever since I woke this morning, pushing the blanket down to pool around my legs.

I wait. I can out wait anyone and she doesn't strike me as the patient type. Sure enough, after a few more minutes of staring, she unbends from her seat, picks her way over to me and settles a little space away from me. She doesn't speak at first, looks into the room, as if there's some secret to my viewpoint that she's trying to decipher.

“My name is Stella.”

I frown. I know this. Heard her addressed by the others. The odd statement makes me look at her.

She turns to me, some sort of expectation in her gaze. A beat of silence.

“What's your name?”

Ah. Right. I understand. My expression shutters closed. I look away, and oh great, they're all looking at me, again. I drop my eyes, draw my knees up against my chest and will her to fuck off. She doesn't. Of course. Stubborn bitch.

“We're going to have to call you something.” She keeps talking, voice low, almost soothing. I shake off the reach of her comfort.

“You can't be the stranger forever.”

Except I am. That is all I am, stranger, other, alien. Unknown, unwanted and never part of you and yours. I look up at her, some of that in my eyes, I see her read it, flinch back. “Stranger. Yeah.” I grin entirely humourlessly. “Forever.”

She doesn't know how to reply, I see that. And there's a flip in her face, a jump from pity to exasperation. _I tried, I brought you food, I tried._ Her lips press together in a line, and she stands, movements angry with frustration.

I bite into my glee at pushing her away, ignore any other empty flicker that tries to cut its way into my chest.

I can speak _their_ language more fluently than the humans'. I know how to court and negotiate and play for dominance, at least, from the outside. I'm apart, not a part, (never a part and that still hurts.) But I know from watching. I know, intimately, how long they can go without blood and what happens when sunlight touches their skin. I know the pairs of lovers. How long they've been together and why. I know the rules and boundaries. Which I can break and which I can't even think of breaking.

I know their blood has changed me, given me gifts (a curse). Feeding me to keep me close, to keep me bound. To keep me wanting. Gorging myself on their cold veins until I was retching in the corner, hands and knees on the cold floor.

But my own name? The scent of my family? The way sunrise looks over the place of my birth? There's just a mess of broken dreams. A snatch of song, of sense memory. The feeling that this, this wooden home, is so close to what I've lost that I could scream. Could run to the window, shatter the glass and _scream_ , let the cold night rush in to cover me up and drag me down.

When it gets too bad I sit on my hands. Wrap myself in my blanket and pretend no one can see me shake.

**

Of course, from that point on she decides Stranger is going to be my name. It's 'Stranger, this is yours.' 'Stranger, give me your bowl.' 'Stranger, you're on watch.' She uses every excuse to name me. To address me directly, where before there was just gestures and looks.

Eben picks up on it as well. Less pointed, maybe. And in his voice, it doesn't feel wrong. Eventually it feels almost natural, having a name, a word that's more than type or species, or a curse. A word that means me, just me.

I don't mean to, but she becomes Stella after that.

**  
 **19 days of night**

The days pass. We sleep, we eat. This is the most comfort I've had in years. The rest of them chafe at their imprisonment. I revel in it.

My thoughts are clearing. Food and sleep turning me back into something that lives and breathes. I'm not sure I like it. It hurts to remember. Like a bloodless limb – pins and needles as the blood rushes back. I'm remembering how to be, and it hurts.

They don't stare so much now. I'm not one of them, but I'm no longer novel. They'll find anything familiar, given time.

Eben's beard is growing, reddish bristles that answer the question of whether or not he looked like the kid when he was younger.

My head is clear. I still feel the snarls and snaps of emotions. Especially heightened as it is in our little wooden prison. But I can think clear through it as well. Not so mad, not completely. Not sane either, but then, I never was. Or at least I can't remember being sane. But then, there's a lot of things I can't remember.

I'm by the window today. Not really sentry duty, since there's only one thing we ever need to watch for, and if they find us. We're all fucked. But whatever it's called. I'm on window duty today. And my hearing's better than theirs. I hear her first.

Bait.

I let my eyes fall shut. Wish myself somewhere else for the space of a heartbeat (his, of course, the only one worth listening to). Then I turn to look, lift the paper up slowly. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe... There she is. Wrapped in a jumper and huddled against the cold. Pitiful.

They hear her next shout. Silence falls behind me. I don't move from my post. Eben crawls over to me and I move then, give him the space. The dark man comes up behind him, looks through the tear in the paper down to the street. “We need to get her in here before they find her,” He says urgently, already moving away.

“Wait.” I don't reach out. They won't allow me that familiarity, but my word is enough to make him pause.

“What?” He demands.

Eben replies before I can find the words. “Look at the rooftops behind her.” He moves away towards me and lets the dark man look. I lean away as much I can, give him space, but there's little room, pressed as we are against the wall. Eben doesn't seem to notice how close I am. Lowers his forehead to the windowsill and closes his eyes.

He's seeing her death.

My fingers ache to touch him, inch out and scrape lightly against the wool of his hat. He doesn't move, I do it again, press a little harder.

He stills. Then, unexpectedly, moves his head _towards_ my hand. I don't allow myself to breathe, just let my fingertips cradle is head.

“She's already dead.” I tell the dark man. “She's bait. If we fall for it, we'll be dead too.”

His look is like cut glass, I turn away from the accusation. I didn't do this to her. I'll suffer for what I've done, but no more. The dark man growls in frustration. Moves away from the window.

Eben straightens, I let my hand fall.

He turns around, leans back against the window and stares blankly in at the room. Stella tries to catch his eye, she fails and turns her gaze to me. I shake my head at her. If he won't explain, I'm not going to.

I settle back against the wall. Her death is already such a certainty in my mind that Eben's next words don't make any sense.

I turn to look at him, and perhaps he senses my confusion. Perhaps he's saying it louder for the rest of them. “I'm going out there.”

“No.”

He looks at me and I want to swallow the word back. But I don't and I don't back down either. “She is bait. For a trap. Which you want to walk into.”

Stella moves forward, the fat man as well. Eben leans in towards them, ignores me and begins to sketch out his plan.

**

“I've known Kirsten my whole life.” The kid is sitting across from me, knees drawn up to his chest, eyes focused on a speck of nothing. He shakes his head sadly.

I swallow a taunt. The kid irritates me just by existing. He's so useless. I hate him. I hate them all. Snarling anger riding against their fear. Makes me feel scraped small and useless and _why didn't he listen to me?_

“I'm going out.” The fat man stands and moves past me.

“Why are we waiting here for Eben while they're feeding on her out there? We could... make a run for it.” It's the fool again.

“Doug, no.” Stella whispers.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, _Doug._ ” I unfold from the window, aching for a confrontation, for something. The fool cringes away from me and I meet Stella's eyes across the attic. A jolt that shocks me away from sharing his foolishness.

“I really think I can kill these things,” the fat man insists, picking up the shotgun.

I scoff, but he doesn't look over to meet my eyes. Then the fool starts babbling again. Stella shushing him. My eyes widen as the noise level climbs, but I don't add to it. One of the others stands, a little to my right. I raise my hand, not looking at him. Hoping he'll stay silent.

“Just move.” The fat man insists.

“No, we agreed to keep the bigger weapon here with us.” Stella turns to face him.

“Just _move._ ”

She grabs the lapels of his coat. “We need you here.” She whispers furiously.

He stops, takes a breath and looks around. We're all staring at him. All of us.

“Okay.” He nods. “Okay.” He moves back over to his seat and sits slowly.

I turn to the side, watch the man who has stood, the one with the old father. He sits back down at my look.

The kid's eyes are wide. The girl's have a sheen of tears. But they're staying put at least. The old man is wrapped in his blankets, his gaze cloudy with age and confusion. I look at the fool. He's facing away from me. I catch Stella's eye over his shoulder and her eyelids flicker. I'll leave him to her then.

I step back, hunker down in my seat.

I want to be out there, with Eben. But one man alone has a better chance of sneaking through the darkness than a troupe of us with weapons. It's only that, that knowledge, that keeps me back. Even so, there's an itch in my hands. I ignore it, sit on my nerves and breathe through it.

Once I have my balance back, I scan the attic again. Stella has managed to get the fool back down. And instead of moving back to her place, she comes over to sit by me. I tense unintentionally.

We may be on first name basis, but I don't like her and she doesn't like me.

“He's gonna be okay.” She doesn't look at me. Doesn't even make it sound like a question. Part of me wants to taunt her with my reply. He isn't her problem. She let him go.

But there's the others listening, and panic will only help _them_ outside.

“He knows what he's doin',” I reply, because it's the truth, and if I can't reassure her, I can at least tell the truth.

I don't tell her I'm wound up tight like a spring. Ready to jump clean through the window if I hear his voice raised in a shout. Long drop be damned.

**

I hear Eben arrive in the house below our feet. I'm up in a heartbeat. Moving towards the trapdoor. “He's back.” I tell the fat man when he takes too long to get out of my way.

He finally moves, lets us pull down the ladder and follows us down, Stella slipping down behind us and sidling round until she’s walking a step behind me.

I reach him first. He's laid out on the floor, and my heart jumps painfully. “What happened? What happened?” I whisper frantically, reaching for his clothes, my hand on his chest. There's blood, but I see no wound. What's wrong with him?

“He can't breathe.” Stella moves around me and kneels opposite, her hands reaching into his pockets. “Where's your inhaler?” She asks him. I stare at her blankly, then back at him. I don't know what this is. Don't know what's wrong with him.

“I lost it,” he croaks, panting loudly. She curses, he talks over her. “John Reese became one of them.”

I frown, “Marlow won't like that,” I mutter. Stella stares at me. But I ignore it. Bite my lip and wish I hadn't spoken.

**

We get him upstairs, half slumped between the both of us and the fat man drags him up the ladder.

She lets me help settle him down, pull the blankets over his shoulders. She doesn't say anything at the way I smooth them over his shoulder, hand lingering on his shoulder.

“What was that? The breathing?” I keep my eyes on him.

“Asthma.” She pauses, as if I should recognise the word. “It's like, it's an illness. It makes it difficult for him to breathe. If he overdoes it, pushes himself too far.” She pauses. “The cold doesn't help.”

I look up at her from under my brows. “And he lives out here. As the sheriff.”

She smiles mirthlessly. “That's Eben for you.”

I can see history behind those words and as I watch, her shields go up behind her eyes. I don't press. Settle back against the wall beside him.

She hesitates, as if she's going to say something. I just look steadily at her. If she decides to make a fuss I'll have to move. None of the others will take my side. But she doesn't. Just tucks a curl of his hair behind his ear, a sad sort of look on her face and moves away to take up my post by the window.

I lean back and let my eyes fall shut, listening to Eben's wheezing. Trying to will it clear and strong.

After a while she comes back to sit beside me. I'm not going to offer her any more information, if she wants to know she'll have to-

“Marlow?”

I sigh, crack my eyes open. Don't look at her. My eyes instead track over Eben's features. Watch his chest rise and fall with each breath.

“He's their leader,” I finally say.

She nods, I see the movement in my peripheral vision. I sigh and turn towards her. The expression on her face is all full of determination, fear pushed out to the edges and maybe I only see it because I can feel it thrumming under her mask.

She surprises me. Stronger than she looks, this slight, pale woman.

“Why won't, Marlow, be happy?” She stretches the name out, familiarising herself with it.

“He doesn't want more.” I know there's an ugly twist to my voice. I can't iron it out, can't even hope to. “Doesn’t want to turn anyone.” Not even me, not even me, not even.

I turn away sharply, look at Eben and a shock goes through me as I meet his open eyes. He was listening.

He knows. He knows now what I was waiting for. Knows for sure what before he just suspected. I read the knowledge in his face. And I can't turn away because she knows too. I swallow against the pain in my throat.

“Are- are you all right?” I ask him.

He holds my gaze a second longer and I will him not to ask, plead silently. Don't make me relive that mess of pain and rejection.

I know they don't understand _me_. Not either of them, Stella's judgement cold from beside me. They can't understand, they've never lived my life. They won't see it how I do. And I can live with that, I just don't want to _talk_ about it.

“I'm fine.” He whispers, voice still rough. And lets his eyes fall shut, turning a little away from me.

I release my breath shakily.

Stella stands, moves away from me, taking the cold with her.

I watch her back, cut my eyes away when she turns to sit down.

“She doesn't understand.”

I look over at him, surprised he's talking to me, then surprised again at the sense of his words. His eyes are still closed, face still turned away.

“No,” I murmur.

He turns to look at me. “Neither do I.”

I nod. “I know.”

His eyes move over my face, I wonder what he sees. My dirty, messy face, small and pointed and full of emotion and madness.

I'm so focused on him, that I don't notice the old man moving, don't notice him creeping to the trapdoor, until it's too late, and I turn just in time to see his head disappearing through the trapdoor.

His son is after him in moments, Stella follows. I try and catch the fat man's eye, but he's ignoring me. I growl under my breath.

“I'll look after him.” Jake speaks up from my right, glancing down at Eben.

I look over at the kid. Pin him with my eyes. He wavers, but doesn't look away and I nod abruptly. I move to the trapdoor and climb down after the others.

By the time I reach them, they're trying to calm the old man out of his noise-making. I wince at it, wanting to go forward and intervene. Strike him over the head to make him silent. But I don't. I reel it in, think of Eben upstairs. And I stand on the steps, watching as he stumbles away into the bathroom.

I look over at Stella.

“Don't say it.” She warns. And I don't, just shrug. The movement brings barely any pain. She glances over at the old man's son, but his focus is on his father on the other side of the door. She sits on a stool in the hallway. “Don't say it,” she says again, quieter, gaze lowered.

I shrug again and turn, walk back up the stairs and climb the ladder into the attic.

I clear the hatch, crawling over to sit beside Eben. He looks a question my way and I'm shaking my head reassuringly -- _it's fine_ \-- when I hear them arguing. I look back, frown between my eyes. Then there's a loud thump from below. I go to stand, but Eben rises as well and I turn back, hand out to steady him. The next thing I hear is the quick tread of feet, then the sound of the door slamming shut.

I stand, Eben comes with me and we move towards the trapdoor.

“Wait.”

I glance back. He's got the axe. I nod, climb down, then reach up for it. He follows me down and I hear the click as he checks the gun.

Both men are gone, the old man and his son. We find Stella on the floor. I let Eben to see to her. She's awake and moaning, not dead, that's enough for me.

I'm halfway through the next room, when I hear the creak of the front door. I freeze. Tighten my grip on the axe.

“No,” Eben breathes the word behind me. I turn back to him, he's standing framed in the doorway, Stella seated against the wall beside him. “No,” he whispers again, shaking his head and he gestures for me to follow. Reaches down to pull Stella up along with him

We file into the bathroom, draw the door closed behind us. Me and Eben at the door, Stella, weapon-less behind us.

It moves through the house, stalking through the rooms towards us.

Coming close, coming so close. I can practically taste the hunger, writhing and mad on the other side of the door.

Then it hears something. I hear it too. The old man. Shouting from outside. His son, shouting in reply.

I spare a moment of desperate thanks to any higher power listening, that I didn't follow through on what Stella asked me not to say. If the old man were dead he couldn't have served as a distraction.

Of course, if he were dead the door wouldn't have been opened, but I'd take the breaks where I could get them.

**

We crawl back up into the attic silently. I can feel the stickiness that coats their limbs, Stella goes first, and I push Eben up in front of me. Wrinkle my nose at the smell of their guilt.

I take my time at the trapdoor. Drawing it up slowly. Eyes on my hands. The rest of them are silent. Shock and crashing relief that it's not them screaming in pain outside.

Stella moves over to the corner by Eben's bed. “I should have fought harder.” Eben crouches down beside her, I can feel his concern. It makes tired. “I should have kept Wilson here,” she continues.

My lip curls. The idiot wanted to die.

“It's hard to stop someone when their family is at stake.” That's Eben. I secure the trapdoor, and pause. Unsure whether or not to turn. They're having a moment and I very much want to wreck it. But Eben feels fragile and thin and maybe he needs this. I turn my head into my shoulder, look at them from the corner of my eye. They're both staring at each other.

“The things you'll do to save your own.”

There's a pause, and then she speaks, so soft I almost don't catch the words. “We were like that once. Weren't we?”

His eyes flicker to me. A bare brush of his gaze, if I wasn't looking I'd never have noticed. He looks back at her, and their smiles look sad.

There's thump across the roofs and I jerk my head up.

“What-” Eben starts, but doesn’t finish, the thumped impact coming again, louder and then leaping into the roof above our heads.

More scrabbling, leaping, and everyone is wide eyed and staring at the wooden boards above us, as if, with enough focus, we could see through to the outside.

I crawl, painstakingly silent, over to the window. Ignore their stares and bring my eye level with the tear in the paper.

Outside is a flurry of white and dark. Black shapes leap from one roof to the next, each bound taking them further from us. I breathe heavily in relief, turn back to look at Eben.

“They're gone.” There's a shushing as they release their pent up breaths. “It's snowing,” I continue.

Eben nods. “As soon as it's safe we have to move.”

It's never safe. But I keep my mouth shut.


	3. Chapter 3

**20 days of night**

We gather all the jumpers, coats, hats and gloves. Wrap ourselves tight, creak down the ladder and file out the door. I'm loaded with food supplies. Fingers wrapped around the haft of the axe. Eben has the shotgun, Stella the handgun and the rest of them who can bear weapons have what we could find – assorted knives, a baseball bat.

Outside is full of noise, screaming of the wind. Snow flicked up and above our heads, like a cold, heavy fog. Destroying everything more than ten paces away into a wash of white.

The cold bites at our cheeks and noses, snowflakes gather on my eyelashes.

We can't move fast. Each step a battle against the wind, and we're only as fast as the slowest in our group. But we reach the store without being seen. Eben takes the lead again. He unhooks the lock, slowly, carefully, edges the door open and creeps inside. I move up to the door and listen.

His flashlight clicks on, the light sweeping over the shelves. He turns back, catches my eye. I shake my head.

No breathing, no heartbeat. Which really doesn't mean anything much. Still, we beckon to the others and pile in through the door.

Eben divides us up, “...food, batteries, medical supplies...” and sends our shivering selves off to search out supplies. “Meet back here in two minutes. Let's go.”

He's as good as his word.

I follow behind him, scanning the shelves. Then I pause, swallow disappointment. Kicking myself for not thinking it. I turn back. "I don't know them.” I wave my hand at the bottles with their little labels full of words. He looks frantic for a second, then - “Hold the bag open,” he orders, voice hoarse. I nod. Pull the backpack off my back and unzip it. He begins to throw medicines and bottles inside. I grab plasters and wrappings, safety pins, things I recognise.

He reaches beside me for something, ripping it out of the box and bringing it to his mouth. There's the hiss of compressed gas and he breathes in, eyes fluttering shut.

I can hear the difference in his next breath. “Inhaler?” I ask. He nods, slides the blue tube into his pocket.

We turn to move down the aisle when I hear something moving. My hand shoots out to grab Eben's arm. Fingers curling around his elbow.

He stills, eyes asking the question. I shrug, jerk my chin towards the noise, and we begin to move towards it.

It's faint, from the other side of the store. I'm listening for a heartbeat as hard as I can, but there's nothing. Just scrabbling movement. As we move closer it turns wet and slick.

I tighten my grip on his arm to halt him. Try to pull him back and move myself in front. He's slow to move, but I push harder, raising my hand to show him the axe. He finally relents, taking the bag of medicines and moving a step behind me. I can hear the others drawing close to us, gathering behind him.

I turn a corner, lines of brightly coloured cereal boxes along the aisle, and in the centre I see a child. She's crouching on the floor, back to me, her pigtails tied up in blue ribbon. I can see the pool of blood where she must have fallen before rising again. Blood still wet, still fresh. That's why I didn't hear her before. She was dead at the time.

She's feeding, the wet sounds grow clearer as I approach. She raises her head with a sudden jerk. “I'm done playing with this one.” Her voice sounds thick. She turns to face me. Her mouth distorted by razor teeth, her irises widened and black, red-edged, her skin deathly pale. “Wanna play with me now?”

I shiver with revulsion. There's something perverted about children being turned. It doesn't happen often. They go strange in the head.

Her lips draw back further from her gums as she snarls and then launches herself at me, moving faster than I can swing the axe. Her small body latching onto my arms, inhuman strength for her size.

Her legs strike and tangle and I'm on the floor, her snarling face in mine. I shove upwards desperately, manage to hook the axe handle under her neck, my grip is slippery with sweat, but I heave upwards with strength born of panic and fling her off me. I spin around, but she's already launched herself at someone else, the dark man, snarling and spitting in his face.

I drop the axe and rush forwards with the rest of them, each of us grabbing at her limbs bearing her away, splaying her out against the wall. She's snarling and spitting and even with our combined weight pressing down on her, she's almost kicking us off.

“The axe, get the axe!” I shout and finally there's the whistle as it swings through the air and smacks into her throat. Her little neck only needs only the one strike to cut it through.

My shoulders sag in relief and I turn to thank Eben. Only it's not Eben. He's standing beside me, holding the body against the wall. It's the kid standing there, blood spatter on his face dark freckles against the pale. The axe slips from his shivering hands, striking the floor with a heavy sound.

“She, she was just a girl,” he whispers, voice weak.

They move to him, reassure him with touch and empty words. Stella moving to embrace him, his body stiff in her arms. He still looks shocky.

I can't remember my first kill, can't even try to remember how it feels. There's nothing I can say. I wait for them to move away, reach down and pick up the axe. I walk forwards and push him in front of me, get him moving. He glares at me. But at least that's better than dead and blank.

**

The sound of the winds has dropped to almost nothing. I don't realise what that means until we're at the door, staring blankly out of the windows at the clear sky. Hoping the blizzard will miraculously return to give us cover. But outside remains clear. Drifting flurries of snow punctuating, not obscuring, the darkness.

“We have to move. We can't stay here.” Eben moves away from the window.

“The Utilador is too far without cover,” The diner lady replies.

They pause to think. The dark man speaks up. “Eben, we could make it to your station if someone could create a diversion.”

“How?”

The dark man sighs, standing to look out the window and I catch the edge of a scent, sickness and death. His coat is covered in the little girl's blood.

There's silence for a moment, none of us willing to voice our thoughts. Death will create a diversion. Who will die for the life of the many?

“These things can't survive the sun.” Stella's voice is slow with thought, she looks at me to confirm and I nod jerkily. “How about we bring the sun early?” We look at her, uncomprehending. She turns to Jake. “Helen had that operation at home.”

Jake nods, comprehension clearing his face. “Yeah, she used an ultraviolet light to grow the stuff.”

Stella looks down at her hands. “I can run for her place, let them follow me and hit them with the sun lamp while the rest of you beat it to the station.”

“Just 'cos something stopped Bela Lugosi doesn't mean it can stop these things,” the fat man growls, turning away from the window to look at us.

Stella shakes her head. “Why would they send Stranger to cut us off.” She glances at me, then continues more strongly, “If they can't handle the light?”

The air grows needles and I hold myself very still.

“If it doesn't work...” Jake trails off.

There's a pause and I can feel their focus. “I don't know,” I say. “The sun burns them. Your lights... I don't know.”

I don't know what this ultraviolet is, or why they think it might work. I'm starting to realise, in this world there are a lot of things I don't know.

Eben stands. “I'll do it. I'm the fastest.”

“Bullshit.” The kid looks up at him. “I weigh less than you and I- I know Grandma's house.” He stands as well.

“You're fifteen years old,” Eben replies. As if that closes the argument. “Forget about it.”

“Fifteen, right,” The kid scoffs. “You've got a wife, people need you.”

I look sharply over at Stella. Her gaze slides to mine for a second, then back to Eben and Jake.

“Jake. I saw you in the back, with the axe. You think you're up to doing that three or four more times?” Eben asks, his voice soft.

Jake has no answer.

“You don't even think this plan will work.” Stella protests.

“Yeah, but you do. He does.” He jerks his head towards me and repeats decisively, “I'm going.”

They trade looks, sharp and intent, a wealth of unspoken meaning that I haven't a hope of deciphering.

“I'll see you at the station.”

Stella shifts, her posture less confrontational. “You'll need to start her genny first.” They keep staring. Then finally she extends her hand, passes him the radio. “See you soon.” He accepts it silently, then turns to look at me.

I stand. “I'm coming.” My tone brooks no argument.

“No-”

“I'm not asking.”

Eben doesn't look happy.

“Stranger.”

“You're not my sheriff. Don't try and order me around.” And I move past him before he can protest, slipping under his arm and out the door.

**

We run. He's shouting and swearing, striking buildings and poles with the axe. Attracting as much attention as he can.

I fling my head back and scream a challenge into the air. It feels like blasphemy, for me, a mortal to challenge them. But liberating too.

Eben gives me a wide look from the corner of his eyes, but has no breath to ask, and I have none to explain.

We slam up against the wooden doors and he jimmies them open. I stand guard by the door, axe raised as he pulls the cord for the generator.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

I can hear them now, screaming their replies. Ice crawling down my spine. I glance over my shoulder at him, but don't speak lest I distract him. _Come on, come on..._

_Yes._

It catches. We break for the house, smash open the door. Inside is silent, the whistle of the wind and their screams muffled by the walls. We move through the rooms quick and quiet.

“Here,” Eben calls hoarsely, voice pitched low. I hurry over to him, standing beside a table full of plants, the lights hanging above them.

I begin to pull the cords, turn them on. The glare hurts my eyes, but I draw my eyelids down and squint through my eyelashes, head turned to the side.

Eben pulls a light off its hanging and turns to face the door, angling it down at the ground.

I take another and do the same, moving up next to him. We wait, crouched and tense as the screams grow closer.

“He's gonna kill us he's gonna kill us he's gonna-”

“Shut up.”

It's not until Eben speaks that I realise what I was saying. I swallow the words down, but they rattle behind my teeth.

“I thought we were dead anyway.”

I pant loudly, breathing short and rapid. Then I consciously push the fear away, pull my jaw closed and nod my head. Leaning sideways to press my forehead to his shoulder.

“I don't want to die,” I whisper, voice muffled against his coat.

Admitting it makes my chest ache. My back feels so exposed in that second, like ice cold claws are ready to slice the flesh from my ribs.

Eben shuffles in towards me, bringing his arm up awkwardly around my shoulders.

“You're not gonna die,” he whispers into my ear. “Neither of us are gonna die.”

I nod shakily. Wishing we were somewhere, anywhere else. Too soon he lets go, hand returning to the light. I do the same. I can do this, stand steady here, beside him.

There are worse ways to go.

I try to find the cold certainty of my death, the dead-eyed calm. But it's lost, rubbed off by too much human warmth.

There's a scream, a giggle of anticipation. I hear _her_ closer now. Close enough I could almost make out the words should I choose to.

I don't.

There's the patter of feet, then a screech as she rushes the building. And now, and now. She stops abruptly. The silence making my arms ache with tension.

I don't look at Eben, can't risk a second of distraction. And I hear _him_ growl. Acceptance... permission. “Now,” I whisper.

She bursts through the door. Black, red, white, hair, skin, bloody grin. And she's screaming, screaming, in the white light. Glee turned to pain and strange, how they sound so human like that.

The others are gathered in front of the house. Marlow is staring at us, slick hatred in his eyes.

The radio crackles, Stella's voice, muffled by distance.

“Yeah.” Eben pants into it speaking over her screams. “Yeah it worked, but they're gonna cut off the power.” He nudges me with his shoulder, “So-”

The lights go out, and we're up and running out the back. Slamming out the door, breath heavy in our lungs. We sprint across the street, feet striking the ground and skidding around the corner of a house, I slip, almost fall and he reaches for me, hands tangling in my coat to drag me up beside him.

“Where-”

He scans the street.

“There, that way.”

We run again. Cold air stripping my lungs, a bloody taste at the back of my throat. Street upon street, pressed against building upon building.

I let my head fall back against the wooden boards. No idea where in the town we are. All snow and grey and oh god are they behind us? Are they in front? Are they? Are they? I'm panting hoarsely, my eyes wide as I scan our surroundings

“Stella.” He whispers into the radio.

I shift around, press him back against the wood and take his place as lookout.

“It's good to hear your voice.” Stella replies. Then, a second later. “Stranger?”

“Yeah.” I flick a glance to him, meeting his tired eyes for a second, before returning to watch our surroundings. “Yeah, he's with me.” He continues. “Don't wait for us.”

There's a pause, then the fat man's voice crackles through.

“Eben. Run for Roger's avenue.” The radio cuts out and Eben looks at me in confusion.

“Come on.” I tell him, looking out a final time, then dragging him across the street with me. We make our way there, Eben taking point again, me following at his heels.

They're screaming, screaming all around us. Spreading across town.

“They're angry.” He whispers to me, pressed against the side of yet another building.

I nod my head, glancing down the street then back at him.

“She was Marlow's mate,” I explain. His eyes widen. “They'd been lovers for-” But I don't get the chance to finish. A heavy growl rolls down from the street beyond -- the grumble of an engine. I press myself flat against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Eben, as they began to stream down the street beside us. Screaming and yelling, leaping from building to building.

There's an almighty crash, and despite ourselves, we both creep to the corner of the building. There at the end of the street, a truck has driven straight through the plate glass windows of a house. And as we watch, an explosion rocks it to its foundations, fire and smoke billowing out, illuminating the silhouettes of those gathered to watch.

Eben's misery peaks beside me. The fat man.

I slide my hand over his shoulder. Pull him to me, wordless, sliding my hand down to his elbow, pulling again, away, away from the fire. Away from the death of his friend.

He stumbles along beside me, blank and half-there, until the sound of the fire, the sound of their screaming, is lost to the night.

**  
**22 days of night**

We reach the station, sick laughter threatens to break from my lips. Back here, again.

I see it in Eben's eyes as well, breaking and dying at the sight of blood smeared over the door.

Once we're inside, in the hallway, I push him against the wall. Hold him there for a second, before going in to see if the rest of them made it.

“He chose that.”

“I know,” Eben growls.

“Don't waste his...” _The word, the word, what's the word?_ I bite my lip. “ _Sacrifice._ ” I finally remember. “Don't waste it,” I insist, pressing closer.

He tenses as if to protest again. But, after a second, he releases the tension in his muscles, sags back against the wall.

“I won't,” he promises, sighing. “I won't.”

I hold him a moment longer, then let my head fall against his chest and his arms come up to hold me steady until it's not me holding him up, it's the both of us pressed against each other.

I want to roll up inside of him. Push that sticky grey misery out from his limbs, settle in its place. All of me wrapped up in...

The inner door opens, and Stella walks out into the hallway.

I tense in his grip.

He breathes in deeply. Exhales. “Stella.” He makes no move to release me.

She's silent.

“Beau,” he says.

I remember that's the fat man's name (burning windows, shattered glass).

“And Doug,” she replies, her voice cracking. I force myself to step back, twitching my shoulders under my coat, unable to meet his eyes.

He straightens as well, reaching out to rest his hand on my shoulder for a second, before moving to her, extending his arm and gathering into the same tight embrace I'd been in. Jealousy strikes a dull note beneath my ribs.

She presses her eyes shut, stiff in his arms. Looking fragile and small against him. I wonder if she thought the same of me.

They release each other after a bare second and step back.

“I'm glad you're okay.” Her eyes flick over him to rest on me before she turns away, holding the door for us to follow her inside.

**

The women and the kid are gathered around the desks. The dark man standing a few steps away, back to us.

Blood and death coats the walls, stinking the place up that at first I don't recognise what I should. Too distracted by my own old blood spatter against the wall of the cell.

“Now there are seven of us.” The diner lady says sombrely, looking up at us by the door.

“Soon there'll be just six,” the dark man says, turning slowly. The scent of death comes stronger and I realise. I understand even before he begins to speak.

For a second my vision whites out. All I feel is hate, deep, old hatred, jealousy curdling in my stomach. I grit my teeth against it, claw the emotion back under my control.

I focus back on the rest of them, as they finally realise what I could scent. The dark man's eyes gone wide and black.

“I can't live forever,” he's saying. “I can't. Eben. Don't let me.”

Stella is shaking her head. “No, Carter.” She trails off into silence.

Eben speaks up, dry and cold. “He told us what he wants.” His voice, so calm, nothing to show the wall of screaming misery rising up inside him. Like a great wave ready to crash over the room.

I can't let this happen.

Stepping carefully, moving on silent feet, I sidle around Eben and in one swift motion, steal the axe from his grasp.

He spins, turns on me angrily. “What- Stranger.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I have to do this!”

“Why?”

“Because he asked me.” He reaches for the axe.

I pull it out of his reach. “First thing you gotta learn.” I grin, full of teeth. “Never listen to a thing they say.”

He glowers, reaches forward again.

I raise my other hand, press it firmly against his chest.

“Let me do this thing.” I lean forward. “Eben. Let me do this.” I hold us there for a second, then turn, walk around him towards the dark man. He's got his coat unbuttoned. He pauses for a second, then nods towards the back room, I shrug and follow him in, pull the gloves from my fingers and shove my sleeves away from my wrists.

He lays his head against the table and it's easy to swing the blade in a smooth arc, up and down onto his neck. I feel it crack the bone, impact shocking up my arm. A wheezing gurgle and dark blood starts to pool over the surface of the table. I pull the blade from his twitching flesh, working it free wetly and swing again. This time there's a solid thunk as it meets the table and his head rolls and falls to the floor.

I turn to the door, steel myself to open it. The tension in the other room has risen. Higher even than after the little girl. It's almost like before, in the diner. And I know what I'll face when I go out there. Stares and hatred, coils of tension all over again. I slump, shoulders drawing down against the unfairness. Better me than him, I chose this. I try to open the door, my limbs ignore me and I stay still.

I let my eyes fall shut.

The door opens. I snap my eyes open, straighten up and stare at Eben, framed in the doorway.

He walks in, pushes it closed behind him. Walks towards me. I ready myself for what comes. A strike, shouting, his arm raises... and he pulls the axe away from me. Lays it on the table. Doesn't spare a look for the dark man's decapitated body.

His arm comes up again, the other as well and he rests his palms on my shoulders.

“Are you all right?”

I frown. “This wasn't my first.”

He nods. “Are you all right?”

I shrug, feel his hands move with the motion. “I'm all right.”

He nods, gaze still intent and turns now to look at the body.

I feel the hot flash of sorrow as he allows himself to see the man that was. I still can't feel it, understand it. But I reach out to him. My bare hand on his shoulder.

“He was-”

“Already dead. I know.” He finishes my sentence then turns away from the sight, a heavy coldness in his face. I don't like that it's there -- he's becoming steel and cold and I want the calm eyed Sheriff back from weeks ago. I lean forwards into his space. Raise myself up on tiptoe, my hand moving up, sliding to the back of his neck. Fingertips cold against his skin.

He looks down at me, a frown line appearing between his eyes. I tilt my head up and brush my lips across his. Barely there, the scrape of my beard against his cheek.

I move back and he's still looking down at me with the frown between his eyes. Silent for a moment, neither of us moving, hands still on each other.

My mouth slips open and I have to catch a whine in the back of my throat. I don't know how humans play this. I don't know the cues, the tells. A trickle of unease crawls across the back of my neck and I lower myself down, flat-footed on the ground.

I step away and his hands drop from where they'd rested against my shoulders.

“We should-” I point at the door.

He's still staring at me, but at that, he blinks, nods his agreement and turns away.

I follow him out, glancing over at the body before I leave. Blank eyes starting up at the ceiling.

**

We don't mention what happened in the other room.

I dispose of the body. Drag it out into the back, as far from us as I can, the chill inside keeping the smell from reaching us. It's colder here than in the attic. Less food, less warmth, less sleep. Tiredness creeping, with the fear, in at the edges of our limbs.

He watches me sometimes. Not that there's anything different in that. But in the way he looks. Like there are questions hovering in the air between us.

I don't understand him. Don't understand what he felt when he looked at the dead man's head. What he sees when he looks at the rest of them. I try to put myself in his place. Look at the kid and think brother. Look at Stella and think lover, wife, friend, (what those two are to each other I still don't completely understand. Their movements made quick by some jagged edge of broken, broken now).

His questions stay in his eyes. Maybe he's trying to see them through my eyes as well. We drift together, sit beside each other, each looking at the rest through an imagined lens. Sometimes it makes me want to laugh, this echoing we're doing and I see my smile mimicked in his face.

The laughter never lasts long.

**  
**28 days of night**

Eben's standing by the window, shoulder up against the wall, letting it take some of his weight. I'm perched on the table beside him, kicking my feet gently in the still air. Eben moves, the rough insulation of his jacket brushing mine.

“Did you see that?” He mutters under his breath, half to himself. I push off, land quietly and move up beside him.

“Look, there.”

I follow his sight line, and yes, I see it, a flashing light in a top floor window. I nod, hearing the kid and Stella moving up behind us.

“There again.”

“Yeah,” the kid breathes behind me. Eben glances over at him, then to me, meeting my eyes. I nod again.

Why does he look for reassurance I wonder? We take his lead, we're happy to. Still, it's only then that he takes his own flashlight from his pocket, raising it head level and shining it out of the window. The click, on, off, on, off, sounds loud in the silence.

“It's Billy,” says the kid and Eben smiles. I spare a second to wish Billy were cold and dead, but the thought doesn't reach my eyes. I even manage a passable smile in return.

“Let's go.” My tone brooks no compromise. Head him off before he can choose who goes with him. Him going was never a question, not after that smile.

He just nods, doesn't protest Stella inviting herself along either.

We pause before leaving the room, quick orders from Eben to Jake and the diner lady. I turn to Stella, speaking out of the side of my mouth. “Who's Billy?”

“Deputy Sheriff.”

Great. More law men.

Eben comes to us next. “There's no cover. We have to move fast.” I nod, Stella nods. We go. The snow crunches beneath our feet, boots impacting heavily on the ground.

My heart beats loudly in my ears, rush of breath cold and raw in the back of my throat. I can feel the tightly controlled panic and fear rising from the other two, and we slam into the side of the house too loud, push the door open, and close it gently in a bid to make up for our noise. Breathing heavily in the hallway.

Eben has his hands on his knees, the echo of a wheeze to each breath.

I move up towards him, nudge Stella out of the way, her face pinched in concern. Slip my hand into his pocket, first one, then another, until I find the cold plastic tube.

“Here.” I take it out and hold it towards him. Each second grating on my mind, as he slowly, finally takes it from my fingers and turns it the right way up holding it to his lips. The little gasping inhale, steady exhale and a few seconds later he straightens, sliding the inhaler back into his pocket.

“Thanks.”

I shake my head, I don't need thanks for that.

We turn to the stairs and begin to climb, glancing into rooms as we pass. Each is empty until we reach the last.

“Billy,” Stella whispers, rushing over to him. Eben is tall and unmovable in the doorway, and I have to move round him, frowning at the wave of grey despair that rushes from him, forward to the centre of the room. Bed, bodies. Dead.

Oh.

I glance over at Billy, seeing it clear now. Grey like wisps of smoke, black sticky like tar, holding him there in this room, by this bed.

Stella's struggling to lift him and he's flailing in her arms, tears escaping to run down his cheeks into his beard.

Eben walks into the room. My hand, extended to hold him back, falls short. There's a wave of anger rising in him now. I won't put myself in the way of it.

He approaches the bed. I stay in the doorway, feet balanced on the edge. He lifts the corner of the sheet, bloody splotches of vertigo inducing waves of horrorangershame that flood from him, into the rest of the room. I feel myself teetering, almost falling, back into that slipslide of madness. When did I last eat? Sleep? The wooden attic seems so long ago now.

It's so easy to fall, to fall.

I sway forward. Catch myself on the door and scramble backwards, sinking down to the floor, back pressed against the wall. Nausea roiling in my stomach.

“It's Peggy and the girls.” Stella says, holding on to her confusion. _Are they sleeping? Are they?_

“I heard the screams,” Billy says, voice rough from disuse. “I didn't want them to die like the rest.” He breathes in shakily. “I tried to shoot myself too, but the fucking gun jammed.” Hitch in his breath. “I shouldn't have signalled to you. I just couldn't stand being on my own.”

Eben makes his way towards him, his movements jerky. He raises his hands to grip Billy's face tightly.

“Never family,” he says harshly. “You don't ever hurt them.” And he presses forwards into Billy's space, pressing him down and falling with him onto the ground. “You don't _ever_ hurt them,” he says again, voice choked with tears.

**

I barely know how we return. The waves of emotion coming off all three of them so thick I can't see my hands before my face.

We collapse into the station, all of us too loud, and I belatedly realise, the station too quiet. The others have gone.

We stand there, staring at the empty spaces as if that'll cause the others to materialise suddenly before us.

Stella snaps out of it first. “Maybe they tried for the Utilador.”

It's possible.

I drag myself from the mess of their emotion, suck in great lungfuls of air until my head feels almost my own once again.

“We should- we should go.” I push away from the wall. Staying here will help no one.

We return to the door, file out and shuffle along the sides of the building. The wind has picked up, not quite a white out, but enough to burnish our cheeks to a frozen red. Eyes slit against the wind.

There's a flutter of black in the distance -- _was that one of them? Was it?_ A flash of shared panic and we shove ourselves under the nearest building, powdered snow across my cheek and lips, sinking cold into my skin.

We hold our breaths as long as we can, pant desperately when we can't any more. Straining to keep the sound low. Muffle it against the snow.

“Go,” Eben orders and we shuffle along to his command. Crawling, running across the gap between buildings, then diving and crawling again. Inching our way across the town.

Eben and Stella have flashlights, flicking them on and off in short bursts, needing the light, afraid it'll give us away.

I'm looking back, distracted by some sound, some curl of emotion, premonition. I see her walking in the centre of the street, stumbling clumsy footsteps in the snow.

She comes closer and I can see the pink of her little coat, her pale, perfect face. Just a girl, as young as the dead one in the shop all that time ago.

They see her, I sense the moment. I can feel the curls of shock and despair coming from all of them. The tensing snap of determination coming from Stella starting to move beside me.

I can sense it, but I can't feel it myself. I try. I try, I strain to understand and I can't and that inability is what pushes me free from under the building. That's what shoves me out, to grab the girl's hand and roll her down under me as we dive back under the house. I catch sight of a dark silhouette at the end of the street and despair shudders through me.

She shivers in my arms, tiny and defenceless and I don't care, I don't care at all that her heart beats, that it could end at any moment. I don't care.

Eben's eyes are wide and clear, full of some nameless emotion. I feel like a fraud.

We hear the shout, a grating cry from across the street. _He saw us._ We both turn to look, see him standing there, dark against the snow. Heron. He never liked me.

Eben turns back to look at me and I can't think of anything to say.

“I'll meet you at the Utilador.”

I shake my head, try to untangle myself from the girl, but her grip is too tight and Eben's too fast, scrambling out from under the building. I barely have a moment to protest, but tangled in my desperation it's barely a croak. I swallow, call out after him, after Billy, who scrambles out beside him, after Stella, who moves last, reaching out and shoving her radio into my hands. “Go,” she orders. Eyes hard.

And I can't disobey. Can't let their _sacrifice_ be for nothing, even if every step away from him makes my chest ache, like I'm breathing in shards of glass, like the snow we were huddled in has sunk into my bones. There's a cry from behind us. A rough, joyful scream of, _here, here they are. Prey._ And I feel the wind freeze the tears on my cheeks.

We stumble away from them. I forget the direction we're meant to be moving in. Forget everything but the thump of the ground under my feet, the feel of the girl's grip on my fingers until it loosens, relaxes to send her falling into the snow. I scoop her up, setting her on my hip and run, stumble along, with her extra weight on mine.

Every street we cross, the skin of my back grows taught, expecting attack at any moment. Every dive under a house sends lines of fear down my back, scanning the shadows to ensure we're alone. Every pause punctuated by our harsh breathing. Pressing lips closed in a useless attempt at silence. Holding my hand over her mouth, her small form, stone-like with fear.

We don't make it to the Utilador. Pinned down behind the dead husk of a car, nowhere to go. They're everywhere, crying, screaming all around us.

I push her down into the hollow under the wreck, crawl in after her. She moves in, wraps her limbs around me, and I pet her hair awkwardly under her hood.

“Shhhh.” I whisper, bending my head to rest my cheek against the crown of her head. “Shhhh.”

**  
**29 days of night**

We're stuck under the cars for hours. The girl shivering underneath me. Her eyes still wide and shocky. I haven't the words to reassure her. I have a feeling she wouldn't hear them even if I did. Part of me hates her, hates that I'm trapped here because of her. Despite that, I don't consider leaving her. Curl my hands closer around her body and hold her tight against me.

“Eben will...” I stop. Will what? Will what? Die?

I close my eyes against the thought, turn my head in to press against the top of her head.

So this is how it ends.

I sink down into the slow, welcome the cold.

I'm drifting, pieces of me breaking off and becoming nothing. How could I have forgotten? This is what death feels like. This is what I know. There's no fear here, no unknown. She welcomes me back into her arms like a wayward child.

“Stranger.”

I sigh.

“This is Eben. Where are you?”

My eyes snap open in shock. What? Am I dreaming? Have I already-

I shift against the snow, hand diving into my pocket. _The radio._ Stella's radio.

I look about, and freeze. Clench so tight on the girl in my arms that I feel her exhale sharp against my neck. I force my grip to relax.

There's someone standing just paces away from us. Feet still against the ground. Listening.

I raise the radio, very carefully, and turn it off.

Then wait, shivering, praying he'll leave.

It seems an eternity of waiting. Waiting and hoping and desperately willing him to go, just go.

I watch his feet. Watch as he's joined by others, count the times they pass back and forth. Count the seconds before they return again. Anything to distract myself from hope.

Eventually I can't take it any more. Watch the latest set of feet walk away, then I raise the radio to my lips, quickly.

“Eben.”

“ _Stranger._ ”

“Whisper,” I reply. “They're walking around.” I pause for breath. “I just had to-” Hear your voice, know you're still alive. Speak to you one final time. I swallow the words down. “I've got the girl with me.” Stick to facts. Easier. Less painful. I try to ignore the thought that this may be my last chance to speak to him.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Under a wreck. Near...” I cast about for a landmark. “Near the statue.” I say, spying it from across the street.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and I huff a painful laugh into the snow. Are we okay? The girl shivers under my hands. And, facts, right, facts.

“We're freezing, Eben.” If they don't get us, the cold will.

“We're coming to get you.” And only then can I admit to myself how desperately I'd been waiting to hear those words.

He continues. “We have to cut off or they'll hear you. I'll call you back when it's safe.” I nod, forgetting he can't see me.

There's a scream a street or two over and I look up, eyes wide, scanning for a glimpse of them.

“Sun comes up tomorrow.” He says after a pause. “I'm going to show you the dawn.” I smile, imagining his earnest, stupid expression. And then I know. I have to say this. My last chance and I have to say this. “I'm sorry. Eben. I'm sorry.” And it's true. I am. I'm sorry for bringing them here, to his home, for destroying everything he loves.

And I'm sorry for leaving him. For trying to be human and proving only the inevitability of death.

There's a pause and I wonder if I should say something more. Explain what I'm apologising for.

“I know.”

And even through the distortion of the radio, I know he's understood.

I drop the radio and gather the girl back into my arms.

**

There's blackness creeping across the snow, slick, liquid, like blood.

Takes me a while to understand, the cold edging into my mind, making me slow and useless. It's not until the fire starts, shooting along the black towards us, that I understand. Oil, it's oil, cut free from the pipeline and spilling into town. Marlow, covering his tracks. Very clever. He always was clever.

I watch the fire dazedly. The crackle and pop as it sucks it way through the wooden town.

There's a black spill of oil creeping its way parallel to us. Not yet struck to fire, but it won't be long.

As if that thought commanded it, there's a low creak, and then a sudden crash that makes both me and the girl jump against each other in surprise. A street lamp, base eaten through by fire, crashes down into the street, sparks billowing out. The fire crawls quickly onto the oil, and shoots down past us.

Now the street is all fire and the heat begins to burn our faces.

My back feels all the colder.

**  
**30 days of night**

Hours later, _days later? Weeks?_ A cry goes up above the roar of the fire, a sudden shout of surprise that has me scrambling for the radio. What, what has he done?

“Stranger?” The radio crackles and I almost drop it in surprise. “It's Stella. Get out of there now. Run.” And I do, grabbing the girl, our limbs cold and heavy as we scramble out from under the wreck. Staying on our hands and knees, disoriented for a moment by the flames.

Then I see them gathered at the end of the street, obscured by smoke and fire. And I see him approach them. Steady steps. All alone. Hood pulled low over his head. My breath solidifies in my throat. I press myself against the side of the car. The girl forgotten beside me.

No, Eben. No.

He's walking to his death, and for what?

I ready myself, gather breath to scream, exchange his place for mine. When he moves, fast. Faster than I can follow.

For a second I think it's the smoke, the heat haze rippling my sight. But he strikes at Marlow again, ducks under his return blow and his hood falls from his face.

I can't see him, not clearly. But I know. I know for sure, just like I knew he understood me over the radio.

He's changed.

The bolt of hunger that goes through me would have sent me to my knees had I not been already on the ground.

I watch Marlow beat him down. The others move around him into a loose circle, watching, not interfering as Marlow rushes to meet him. Blood flies. Eben gets a hit in, I see Marlow's head snap back, anger destroying his face, and he flips, faster than my eye can track. Appears behind Eben and slams him forward, chases his body as it collapses and kicks him down. I can hear the heavy impact, the crack of his ribs. I bite down and feel sudden pain in my hand. Realise I'd brought it between my teeth without noticing. Forget and bite down again the next time Marlow strikes Eben to the ground.

“Go!” He cries against the snow and I know he's seen me. “Go,” he shouts again. And I can't, _I can't_ but the girl has her grip on my arm again and she's tugging insistently. We stumble away, past sheets of flame and slick spills of burning ground.

Two streets, then another. She's dragging me along behind her, then finally we reach the edge of the town, snow rises with unreal smoothness up the slope, to the dark shape of the utilador, squatting on the horizon. I halt, falling to my knees.

I can still hear him screaming. His cries carried softly on the air. And I can't, I can't be here. I have to see, I have to at least bear witness.

“There.” I point at the building, pushing the girl in front of me. “Go there.”

She won't let go, and I have to shove her roughly, hearing Eben scream again.

“Go,” I shout. “Go!”

I push her again, send her sprawling in the snow, and turn away before she can regain her feet. Move away from her. Walking, stumbling, then running back the way I came. I skid across the snow, falling on the corners and scrambling back upright. I don't even feel the snow pressed against my hands, my face, just push myself up and back onto my feet.

I hear their voices raised in a shout: the rising crescendo of their sick joy and I'm panting over the litany in my head, _no, no, no, don't let me be too late, please no, no._

I arrive in time to see Marlow launch himself at Eben. In time to see Eben twist desperately round to meet him, hand raised, his entire arm a weapon that punches straight through Marlow's neck.

Blood spatters the snow. Heavy and black, and Marlow drops to the ground. Body still.

There's silence that the sound of the fire rushes in to fill.

Eben looks about himself, unsteady on his feet. I see him steeling to fight the rest, and then he sees me. His black eyes go wide with shock.

I'm moving forwards without thinking, passing into the semicircle of their bodies, ignoring their stares and moving forward still, straight to Eben, pulling up short in front of him.

I want to move in even closer, I want to lick that messy blood from the pale of his skin. But I hold back. I wait. I know they're waiting, watching us with wild eyes. Their blood stained faces all black and white in the flickering light of the fire. This stillness won't last.

I lick my lips. “They're yours now,” I say, focusing on him.

What?” His voice is distorted, jaw widened to allow for the teeth. My vision swims, a dizzying rush of lust. “They're yours.” _I'm yours._ I don't say it. It's a near thing.

I force myself to continue.

“You killed Marlow,” I say, sparing a glance for his bleeding carcass.

“They're yours. They'll do whatever you say.” And no it's not quite that simple, but for now, near enough. We haven't the time for explanations. My fingers twitch by my side. I want to press them hard against his cold cheeks.

He looks at me and even though his eyes have changed -- the pupils blown wide to eat the irises -- he's still Eben and I read his intent.

“They won't walk into the sun for you.” And of course that's what he thinks of first. It would have made me laugh if I weren't so aware of them waiting behind me.

The balance is stretching thin, trembling on the edge of collapse.

He looks around and I can sense his frustration. I make the choice for him.

“ _Go back_ ” I order, turning towards them. The guttural language familiar in my mouth. “ _Go back to the ship. Wait there._ ”

There's pause, then Heron steps forward. “ _What are you?_ ” He growls. “ _Nothing. Mortal. We don't take your orders.”_ He stalks through the snow towards me.

Eben growls, swiftly moving between us.

“Do what he told you.”

I let his actions speak for themselves. Heron has never learnt a language other than his own.

I know there's ugly satisfaction in my gaze as I look at him. Daring him to argue. I cut my eyes to Marlow's body, still leaking blood. Then back to him.

He snarls, giving me a final, impotent glare and they fade away into the shadows.

“What did you tell them?” He turns to face me.

I blink, remember he's not one of them. Yet.

“To return to the ship.”

“Will they stay there?”

I shake my head.

He lets his eyes close, swallows. “I have to go, don't I?”

I step closer to him, allow myself just one step. “I'm sorry.”

He shakes his head. “I have to make sure they don't come back.”

I say nothing. Let him believe he can do that, he can change them. I feel like a fraud again. Sitting uncomfortably in my skin. But the greater part of me doesn't care. Can't care. This is everything I ever wanted. All I have to do is make him reach out and take it.

“I'll be with you.”

He looks at me. “No. You have to stay here, live.”

The humans are approaching from behind us. I can hear their footsteps crunch against the snow. They'll plead with him, try and persuade him. I can't let that happen.

I shake my head sharply. “This _is_ my life, Eben.”

He's not convinced, he's going to argue and I can't take that, can't deal with that, there's no time, dawn is a whisper in the dark sky.

“Eben. Please.” I take another step forward. “Don't leave me behind.” I put all the weight of my longing in those words.

The humans gather in a loose circle around us and Stella moves up on my right. “Eben,” she says. “The dawn.”

Stella, always Stella, moving in to remind him of his humanity. I swallow painfully, choking on my own failure.

I can see Eben slipping away from me and there's nothing I can do, nothing I can say to change it.

He takes a step towards her... and she flinches. I see it. Her eyes widen, shock at her unintentional reaction.

Eben halts.

“Where are you going?” I ask, wanting his attention back on me. Pushing my advantage, even if I'm not sure that's what it is yet.

“To face the dawn,” he replies, still looking at Stella.

“No,” I cry, shock making me loud.

He turns to look at me and I walk towards him. The only one to walk towards him.

“Don't do this.” I move closer, raising my hands to his arms, running my hands up, onto his shoulders. A ripple of murmurs moves through the others when I touch him. “Don't do this,” I whisper.

He bends down to me, a whisper in return. “I can smell their blood.” He tilts his head, cheek brushing the side of my face. I shiver, eyes falling half-shut.

I wait for him to drag his eyes back to my face. “Can you smell mine?”

He looks at me, eyes so dark.

I know he can feel my heartbeat increase. I tighten my grip on his shoulders so that he'll know it's not fear.

“I know how to do this. You don't have to go. I can teach you. Show you.” It's not a lie. Not what he thinks, maybe, but not a lie.

“No one should have to-”

“This is who I _am_ Eben. This is all I know.” And either he understands this, me, or he doesn't. “This is my life. Until the moment I die, then it'll be my death. I want this.” And I steel myself. “I want you.”

And with that I step away, let my hands fall. His choice. I can't wait any more, can't keep waiting and wanting and begging. I need him to choose.

There's a moment. A pause. A second in the balance where I can't predict which way it'll go.

Then he takes the step. Closes the distance, raising his hand to my cheek, palm cold against my skin.

“Eben,” I whisper, so soft it's barely a word, he brushes his fingers down my jaw, trailing over my neck, to the collar of my coat, then dropping to his side.

Stella steps towards us both. “No.”

Neither of us look at her, but Eben answers. “I'm sorry Stella. I have to go.”

“No, you can-”

“Stella. Please. I can't stay here. I can't...” He turns towards her. “I have to go.”

He turns away, looks at the rest of them, shock giving way to sadness on a handful of faces. Gaze lingering on his brother the longest. But he won't risk going close to them, nor them to him.

Then he's walking away from them. Walking out of the circle, away from the houses. The movement so sudden, I'm left behind for a second before I blink away my surprise and turn to follow.

“Keep him safe.” Stella's crying, pale tears making dirty lines down her cheeks.

I feel something, a painful twist below my ribs.

“I will,” I promise, my gaze drifting over them one last time. Then I turn away, stumble through the snow to catch up with Eben.

We walk silently, just the crunch of the snow, whistle of the wind and the ever present hum of the coming dawn.

Eben stops when the ship comes into view; dark and squat, sitting in the water. He looks up, gazing at the blue stained sky and I'm afraid he's changing his mind.

“Eben.”

He doesn't move. “Eben.”

He looks back at the ship and begins walking down towards it, each step steady against the snow.

“What am I now?” He asks, a step away from the water's edge.

“Dead,” I say. “You're dead.”


End file.
